Big Wigs
by DeannaReadX
Summary: After the war, Draco is numb, tired, and always working trying to distract himself from his plethora of mental illnesses. Harry is just trying to keep his head above water. They re-unite at a charity event and drunkenly realise that without the animosity between them, they have some real friendship potential. Of course, neither expected for it to turn into something more.


Okay, I've been working on this for about four months now, and its been driving me up the wall trying to figure out a cut off point because I just kept wanting to add more character arcs and plot lines. But I finally figured out a good way to end it, and I'm really proud of it, so let me know what you think. Basically, everyone is queer, Draco is struggling with his mental health, along with pretty much everyone else after the war. This is just all your faves trying to be functioning adults.

Warnings for: drug abuse, addiction, therapy, medication; anxiety & schizophrenia, pregnancy, rape mention.

Dee xx

* * *

He's been laying here on the grass for a good hour before anybody notices he's gone. It's a pretty night; the moon is at its apex, the stars are just visible through wispy gatherings of thin cloud among inky black, and the air is sharp and just cold enough to make his breath discernible in the air. He thinks about what his father would say as he smokes a cigarette, one leg stretched out loosely, the other bent slightly at the knee in a haphazard way, sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbows, bowtie undone, blazer strewn on the ground beside him. Lucius would most likely curse about a good suit being ruined. His mother will probably tell him off later, for wearing so little layers in such cold weather.

Quite frankly, he doesn't give a shit.

He just wants to stay this way for a while. He wants to smoke and he wants to listen to the trickling of fountains in the gardens around him and the faint hum of music, coming from the manor at the bottom of the vast patch of field he's situated on. He just wants to lay there and let it all thrum through him, to just let it pass where his mind can be clear and the chill in his bones numbs out everything else.

"You're going to be sneezing and coughing your guts up for the next couple of weeks if you don't put some layers on"

Draco simply snorts and rolls his eyes, lazily shaking his head as Potter sits down to the right of him, one knee bent, arm hanging over it, other leg out. Draco glances at him through one eye, and even he has to admit that the idiot scrubs up well. His suit fits him properly and it looks good; but it's clear that the party is in full swing, as Potter's hair is messier than usual, his shirt creased and unbuttoned at the top, the blue blazer mildly crinkled, his updated (thank Merlin) pantos lenses skewif on his face.

"Shouldn't you be taking pictures with the big wigs?" Draco drawls half-heartedly, exhausted and resigned. Resignation is in his blood lately; it follows him everywhere and sleeps in his muscles. In a way, it's a blessing. He's rarely surprised when things fuck up for him anymore.

"I thought _you_ were one of those big wigs"

"I'm a very small wig now, Potter," he sighs blandly, continuing to smoke, casually curling his tongue so that it escapes his lips in small circles "with a lot of money"

"But you're still here," Potter points out "that counts for something"

"Perhaps," Draco says, raising one eyebrow "but you know these events are purely public wank parties so that those big wigs can jerk themselves off about the money they pour into charity whilst everybody watches"

Potter's smirk becomes more pronounced, and he sighs heavily, shifting so that he too is on his back on the grass beside Draco, about fifteen centimetres between them.

"You would know," Potter grins, green eyes glittering under the moon as he stares up at it whilst it glints softly in the corners of his glasses.

"Fuck you," Draco retorts with another snort, the alcohol in his veins causing a delightful lethargy in his limbs and spreading more of a warmth throughout his body, combatting the cold.

"I can see why you came out here though," Potter says quietly, one arm resting loosely on the centre of his own chest, face more relaxed than Draco has ever seen it "it's bloody beautiful. And I read your file. You have panic attacks in large groups of people now. You get, to quote 'restless and irritable in the presence of more than three people at a time'"

"Isn't it illegal to read confidential documents?" Draco drawls, although he's not particularly offended; it's the truth, and it isn't really anything that hasn't already been reported in the prophet.

"I'm the chosen one," Potter turns his head sideways, grinning again "I can do whatever the fuck I want"

"Ah yes," Draco replies, smirking "I had almost forgotten"

" _I_ didn't," Potter quips, wordlessly taking the cigarette from Draco's fingers, ignoring his annoyed expression and sucking on it, turning his head back and closing his eyelids, breathing in deeply, his body relaxing even further.

"I see freedom hasn't improved your manners," he remarks.

"I see freedom hasn't improved your self-destructive habits"

"Touche," Draco smiles sleepily, closing his eyes.

"Don't go to sleep," Potter says in a miffed tone, frowning a little as he smokes "I'm not rushing you to St Mungos if you choke on your own vomit"

"I'm not that drunk, Potter, Merlin!" Draco grumbles, dropping one eyebrow and opening one eye to glare at him, taking the cigarette from his fingers petulantly, before relaxing his vision once more in the direction of the stars.

"I learned the constellations," Potter speaks a moment later, his voice much quieter now, and with an unidentifiable quality to it "I have a balcony on my flat," he continues, and Draco puts the cigarette out, turning his head on the ground to watch Potter's face now, enigmatic and possessed with thought "and I can see the stars from it, so I learned the constellations so that I could know which ones were which"

"So you could recognise him," Draco replies in a slightly croaky voice that doesn't really sound like his own, realising what on earth the young saviour is prattling on about "Sirius"

"Yeah," Potter sighs, one of his hands settling on the centre of his own abdomen, the other reaching above himself to point at the brightest star in the sky "right there. The dog star"

"Ironic," Draco snorts, and Potter's jaw tenses as he swallows the clear lump in his throat, tongue rolling out for a split second to wet his lips, breath escaping his mouth in the air.

"I feel like I should quote dragonheart or the lion king"

"I don't know what either of those things are, and I don't particularly care," Draco replies resolutely, although he still can't seem to stop looking at Potter's profile, the green eyes shining slightly with the beginnings of emotion, the weight of the cold both light and heavy around them.

"Alright, but at least tell me you've seen the Van Gough painting?"

"Starry night," Draco acknowledges with a flick of his brows, finally turning his head back up at the sky "bought it at an auction about two months ago, sold it off for around a hundred million galleons, gave the proceeds to charity. One of the reasons why my presence is required tonight"

"I feel like that should shock me, but it really doesn't," Potter chuckles lightly, shaking his head "well you know the story of the artist at least?" he asked.

"I did my research, although it hardly seems relevant now," Draco remarks in a feigned bored tone.

"Bullshit," Potter grunts "you know it's relevant. Van Gough saw the world in colour – beautiful, intense colour and they all moulded together and throbbed with vibrancy. He saw that when he looked up at the stars"

"Potter, Sirius wasn't vibrant colour. He was grey and black and probably a little bit of red mixed in there – you Gryffindors are incapable of excluding the blasted colour from anything. This metaphor is tiring, what's your point?"

"My point is," he says, glancing sideways at Draco reproachfully "Van Gough looked up at the same sky as us. All we see is blue and black and what we comprehend as silver. He saw everything. I want that," he admits finally, swallowing again "why can't I see that?"

"Because," Draco sighs once more "we're barely adults, and all we've seen is the battlefield. Threats, enemies, and the fuck ups of the adults that passed all that shit down to us. We're barely out of our teens and our hands have squeezed the life out of hundreds of people because it's the only thing we could do to survive. We see the world the way it really is – grass, trees, and a black sky full of stars with a bit of blue added in. Don't waste your time trying to make it into more, nature wouldn't thank you for that – it didn't thank your bloody Van Gough much either"

"Are you saying that if I romanticise the world I'll want to cut off my ear and commit suicide?" Potter raises his eyebrows as they turn their heads towards each other for a couple of moments, both of them looking bemused and confused, before they burst out laughing. Deep in the belly, rib aching, ridiculous laughter that shakes their bodies and makes their breaths shudder in the air.

When the laughter dies down, Draco closes his eyes again and presses the back of his scalp in the grass.

"They'll be missing you, Potter," he sighs "you should go back to the party"

"And leave you out here to end up in hospital in a few hours? Doubtful. C'mon Malfoy, on your feet," he tells him, wincing and chuckling with the after effects as he rises to full height, holding a hand out for him. Draco stares at it for a few moments, before he considers the growing inertia in his limbs, and the way his emotions are scattering loosely to the surface of his skin. He decides that Potter is correct in his assumption that he's a lot more intoxicated than he thinks he is, and slaps their palms together, allowing him to pull him upward, bringing his discarded blazer with him in the other hand. Draco staggers slightly, and Potter has to grip his upper arm for a second as he catches his shaky balance.

"You good?" Potter asks, and Draco tuts at him, frowning and shaking him off, moving to walk back in the direction of the party, only to almost trip over his feet again.

"Oh no you don't," Potter says with mirth in his voice as he ducks under Draco's arm and threads one around his thin waist "you're going home to bed and you're going to sleep it off like a functioning adult"

"What if I'm not a functioning adult?" Draco frowns genuinely, belching slightly.

"You pretend you are," Potter says under his breath as he turns them on the spot and apparates them away.

* * *

"Dammit, Potter, stop fussing around, I'm not an invalid," he snaps as Potter tries yet again to steady him whilst flicks the dimmed lights on in his apartment and shrugs his blazer off onto the nearest armchair. He goes straight for the balcony, somehow finding the muscle control to take the packet of cigarettes from the pockets of his designer trousers "shut up and get out here. The least I can do is let you have a half-decent fag, seeing as tomorrow you'll be back on those vile cheap things the lower class muggles like to suck on"

"I'll have you know that those vile cheap things are perfectly fine. They do the job," Potter says in a defensive tone, taking the superking menthol from Draco's offered packet nonetheless and lighting up.

"I should have known that you'd live on the Thames," Potter sniggers "posh git"

"You shut your whore mouth, Potter," he replies, leaning back against the railings of the outer corner of the balcony and relaxing against it, legs out, angles linked together, one hand in the pocket of his trousers, the other holding the cigarette.

"You're one to talk," Potter snorts, leaning forward over the railings slightly, the bottoms of his arms supporting the position, inhaling deeply "I don't think I've read a single print of the prophet this month that hasn't debated in detail the inner workings of your scandalous sex life"

"Says 'the queer who fucked'," he grins wickedly, not denying his infamous sexual exploits, smoking softly "really Potter, if you're going to have a sexual awakening, you could be a little more discreet about it"

"It's hardly an awakening," Potter snorts "I've always been queer as a nine bob note. The press have just been too insistently heteronormative up until now. I suppose it has something to do with me hitting adulthood"

"Is that why you're grooming me then, Potter?" Draco asks with a small, interested tilt of his head "us bisexuals have to stick together and all that jazz?"

"Fuck you," he tuts "it's just not in my best interests to be reported being seen with you in a field, hours before you die of asphyxiation and alcohol poisoning"

"So just your frustratingly arrogant hero complex, then," Draco teases, laughter in his smile as he flicks ash onto the cobbles outside, which stops about six feet outward and follows the open stretch of the Thames.

"Again," Potter, chuckles, kicking out lightly at Draco's feet "fuck you"

"Bit eager, aren't we, Potter?" Draco continues his convivial drawling, smoking some more "I'm afraid you've deemed me rather impotent for the night. Come back another time, I'm rather sure I might be more equipped to fuck you into my mattress"

"You'll have to try harder than that to get me anywhere near your bed, Malfoy," Potter rolls his eyes, shaking his head again.

"That sounds like a challenge," he says, still grinning at the blush creeping up Potter's neck beneath the collar of his shirt, despite his calm demeanour " _and_ I'm already half-way there"

"A challenge you won't win, and should quit whilst you're ahead," Potter says, taking the last few tokes of his cigarette and flicking it over the balcony, going to leave. He pauses for a moment, and places his hand on the side of Draco's neck, looking him in the eyes.

"It's not going to be like this forever, you know?" he says, jaw clenching slightly again "you'll get better at pretending, and then you won't have to pretend anymore"

"What makes you so sure?" Draco frowns, cigarette still burning in his slack hand.

"Because it's me and you," he replies simply, his lips curving at the corners slightly "we always make it through, whether we're trying to kill each other, or flirting. We always survive"

"What if I don't want to survive anymore?" Draco knows he's dangerously close to letting his guard down too much, but the alcohol is still in his system, breaking down his brain to mouth filter, and Potter's hand is warm and calloused against his skin, and his eyes are so unequivocal, his voice so convinced.

"Then you learn how to _live_ ," he says, pursing his lips together for a moment, before curling the hand around the back of Draco's neck, bringing his forehead to his mouth and pressing a lingering kiss between his brows "drink some water before you go to bed, and take some ibuprofen in the morning," he adds as he pulls away and leaves for real this time, the sound of the door shutting taking the remaining strength from Draco's limbs.

He slumps against the railings slightly, smoking the rest of his cigarette in silence, forcing himself to move a little while later. He locks the balcony doors, and puts the wards up on his front door, drinking a glass of water. He stumbles sluggishly to his bedroom, and just gathers the momentum to strip before collapsing on the bed, exhausted, numb, and uncomfortably warm.

* * *

Draco feels awful. He feels as though he's been attacked by Grindylaws, played kissy chase with a hound of Blast Ended Skrewts, and then engaged in a pub fight with Dwayne Johnson. His mouth tastes like an ash tray, and his legs and lower back feel tired and sore, his head throbbing heavily. It's a while before he gets up the impulse to move, and does so with a high pitched whine, and petulant wincing and cursing.

Slowly, he dresses in a t-shirt and grey sweatpants, blinking against the light streaming into his living room through the white, translucent balcony curtains. He goes straight to his open kitchen, opting out of turning the kettle on just yet, and going for another glass of water, in which he drops two beroccas and pops two cocodamols, running a hand through his blonde bed hair and trying to piece together how the fuck he even got home last night.

He goes straight for his cigarettes as he grimaces at the taste of the hangover pills, stepping out onto the balcony, and letting the cold after-winter morning air wash over him as he lights up.

He remembers stars, and Potter, and half-serious flirting, and something about the lion king and being queer. He doesn't let himself become mortified, because he's not feeling shame anymore; he refuses to be embarrassed about anything, having been humiliated and violated so much by his father as a child. Instead, he thinks about how weird it is that he keeps picturing Potter's soft, pink mouth, and his green eyes, and that stupid hand on his neck. He can't get it out of his head. It's rather frustrating, seeing as its nine thirty in the morning and he's hungover and wants to keel over the toilet and eject the contents of his stomach and not think about anything in particular at that moment in time.

He finishes his cigarette, drinks some more water, gets the bucket from under the sink and takes it with him to the bedroom, placing it beside his bed just in case, before crawling back under the silk sheets with only minimal groans of despair. Thoughts of Potter can wait until later; right now he wants to be comatose for another six hours.

* * *

Draco tugs his black pea coat tighter around his frame and hands the barista a five pound note, taking the £1.25 change distractedly, dropping it into the pocket of his jeans. He practically inhales his steaming hot caramel macchiato as he steps back out onto the London street, shivering at the nausea pushing at his gut, swallowing it down and sipping at his drink some more, uncaring that it burns the roof of his mouth. He finds a quiet back end alley and apparates outside the ministry building, going through the entry process.

He doesn't say hello to anybody who greets him as he walks briskly across the large shiny hall of crossing wizards belonging to different departments, going straight for the auror offices. He nods briefly at his secretary before he closes his office door behind him, growling at the pile of paperwork on his desk and the pink post-it notes that Granger has left on the fireplace again.

He calls Bradbury in from across the hallway and pinches the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb as he pushes between a scattering of parchment and case files, not taking off his jacket or sitting at his desk, still drinking his coffee.

"Mr Malfoy?" Bradbury questions as he peaks his head around the door "was there something you wanted? Only you're not rota'd in today. It's a Saturday, sir-"

"Yes, thank you, Bradbury, I'm aware that I could be at home recovering from this bastard of a hangover. I just came in to get the Elise case file. Where is it?"

"Malleroy dropped it off yesterday evening, Sir," Bradbury replies, stepping wholly into the office, looking entirely unafraid of Malfoy's irritated and authoritive demeanour "how did the charity event go last night?"

"It went well enough," he sighs, frowning "I think I flirted drunkenly and outrageously with Harry Potter. Do you think that you could be so kind as to go and fetch the damn thing for me, Bradbury?"

"Harry Potter?" he raises his eyebrows in surprise, shifting on his feet and crossing his toned arms over his chest "how the turn tables"

"Yes, yes, I'm still coming to terms with it myself. The file, Bradbury, the fucking file, please? And I trust you won't go running your mouth about this Potter thing"

"Scout's honour sir," he grins, saluting him "you know my mouth has better uses than idol gossip"

"Behave, Bradbury," Draco scolds, although there's a smirk on his mouth as he drops his attention back to the parchment on his desk, and Bradbury slips back out of the office chuckling to himself.

"Never, Sir"

Eventually, Draco manages to get his hands on the files he's been after and apparates back to his apartment, utterly exhausted, but determined not to spend any more of his day sleeping. Instead he buys himself another coffee on the way home, and perches on the stool at his kitchen island, pouring over photographs of dead bodies and making notes on several of the post mortem results, intermittently chain smoking, and stretching out, pacing around his living room so as to not remain completely stationary for too long and become nauseated again.

Around five o'clock that afternoon, Potter shows up at his door with Chinese spring rolls, pork balls, and a huge bottle of cola. Draco wants to make a shit tonne of smart alec comments about his presence, but he's feeling far too hungover and monosyllabic to do anything but take the food and drink and offer Potter the stool opposite him.

Draco eats enthusiastically whilst Potter takes his coat and scarf off (as if that's a thing that is normal and allowed now), and dips into the notes and photos, making non-committal noises of agreement and surprise and amusement now and again. He picks up Draco's quill and adds his own little foot notes, eating from his own carton of stir fry as he goes.

"Potter, I swear to Merlin if you sit there looking all casual and comfortable for another minute, I'm going to hex your hair the same colour as your eyes"

"I bought food," he replies simply, not taking his eyes off of whatever file he's reading "you don't like spring roll?"

"No, Potter," he says, willing himself to remain patient "I love spring roll. I don't like you. And the last time I checked, you don't like me either. So forgive me if I'm a little confused as to why you're turning up at my apartment with takeout and your take on my caseload"

"Hangover food," he says, lifting his head to grin for a moment, before dropping it again "eat your pork balls and stop over thinking things"

"I'm not over thinking things, Potter. You showed up unannounced at my flat even though we don't talk and aren't even friends and are supposed to have despised each other for the majority of our lives"

" _You_ let me in," he says matter-of-factly "and I repeat, I brought food. Also, don't be an ungrateful asshole; I got you home last night when you were too wasted to walk on your own and saved you a bollocking from the press. I'm just making sure my efforts weren't in vain"

"Bullshit," Draco stated blandly, still chewing on a pork ball "I call bullshit"

"Call it whatever you want, mate; you're still not getting in my pants"

"I don't want in your pants, Christ, Potter!"

"Good, so we're on the same page then. Did you take the painkillers this morning?"

"Yes, that's not the point, Potter," Malfoy insists, pouting.

"And you slept it off?"

"Yes, but-"

"Look, if you have to have some sort of label, think of this as a peace offering. We got on well last night. Granted, we were both drunk; but I took that to mean that we actually have something here, something that means we don't have to waste energy hating each other anymore," he finally stops writing and puts the quill down, looking at Draco with a straightforward expression "something that means we might actually have the basis of an understanding; possibly even friendship. And I'm not going to be able to build on that if I avoid you like the plague and continue scooting around you awkwardly because neither of us want to have the conversation we're about ten years overdue for having"

There's quiet then. For a few moments, neither of them speak, and Potter sits there casually waiting for him to process properly, and perhaps say something else. Instead, Draco sighs and hunches his shoulders, pouring himself another glass of cola and downing it.

"I'm sorry," he says eventually, feeling the words jolting in his gut and resonating in the air around them "I'm sorry for everything. The way I behaved, for being a racist little shit, for fighting on Voldemort's side, for taking the mark, for holding your friends prisoner in my basement, for picking on Granger, for being rude to Weasley – even though the rusty fuck deserves it. I'm sorry for being so stupid, for getting in too deep, for being a coward, for not apologising sooner, and for fucking everything up," Malfoy keeps his head hung the whole time, but Harry can hear the sincerity in his tired voice, the cracks in the syllables, the utter exhaustion in his body.

"Me too," Harry sighs, sitting forward slightly "I'm sorry for not being the bigger guy, for always taking your bate, for humiliating you publicly, for making an already fucked up situation even more unsafe for you even though you were only trying to keep your parents alive. I'm sorry that I gave as good as I got. And I'm sorry for carrying on this bullshit animosity even though the war ended"

"Did that hurt?" Draco says, lifting his head and flicks up an eyebrow, even though there's a faint tinge of pink in his pale cheekbones. Harry smiles sadly and shrugs his shoulders.

"Not as much as I thought it would. Do we have a deal?"

"Bring more Chinese food next weekend, keep writing your notes on that file, don't talk too much, and yes," Draco says, only-half serious about the no talking thing "we have a deal"

"Fine, but you're paying next time, Malfoy. I won't have you taking me for all my money"

"Give over, Potter," Draco snorts, shoving another mouthful of roll in his mouth, and taking the cigarette from behind his ear, putting it in his mouth. He chucks one at Potter, and gets up from his seat, wincing his way out to the balcony again. A few seconds later, Potter joins him. They smoke in silence, Draco simply too hungover to form a lot of coherent words; but Potter leans back against the railings, breathing out the white wisps of air and shamelessly watching him, a self-satisfied smirk on his annoying lips. Draco watches the cobbles outside, and the evening drunks rolling in from the local pubs, propped up by the railings on his side, his eyes getting heavy again, the hangover resurfacing.

"You need to go to bed," Potter tells him when they finish smoking, closing the French doors behind them. Draco sighs and goes to his fridge, swigging down half a carton of milk.

"Go the fuck away then, Potter"

"You're really very rude," Potter remarks, slightly amused as he throws the remaining food in the bin and shrugs back into his own grey pea coat, dropping his hands in the pockets and walking to stand in front of Malfoy, his grin growing bigger. Once again, the twat has little concept of personal space, seeing as there's only about five centimetres between them. Draco masks his elevated heart rate with a small smirk.

"Bugger off, Potter, before I make use of you in the bedroom"

"I told you, you're not getting in my pants"

Draco's smirk crawls further along his mouth and he places the milk carton on the marble counter beside him, his finger reaching out to hook around Potter's belt, dragging him forward so that his lips are almost pressed against Potter's earlobe.

"Well don't be a cock tease then, Potter. Get out of my apartment," he whispers, letting go of his belt, satisfied with the way the man's breath has hitched against the skin of his neck, before sliding out around him and heading for his bedroom "don't let the door hit you're huge head on the way out," he calls over his shoulder, shutting his bedroom door behind him. About five seconds later, he hears Potter leave, continuing to smile to himself as he strips down again and collapses on his back in bed. The situation is so fucking bizarre, but if there is anything he enjoys more in the world than a good fuck, and a cigarette, it's winding up Harry Potter and giving as good as he gets.

* * *

"I swear to Merlin, Potter, I am incapable of getting rid of you," Draco remarks, only slightly irritated when Potter turns up looking cold and windswept on the doorstep of what used to be the manor. Potter grins wide when he spots the newest addition to the population of orphans now residing amongst the corridors, crouching and throwing his arms open. Beth, a little girl from wizarding Kenya squeals loudly and runs straight to Potter, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck and making sniffly noises of content when he lifts her up to his full height, arms around her tiny waist, her small chubby legs braced on his hip.

"Well I couldn't let Kamaria spend her first night in this new place without welcoming her now, could I?" Potter grins at her as she pulls her face back slightly and presses a slobbery kiss to his cheek.

"How do you know Kami?"

"She was part of the tribe I visited last year on my vacation. I helped get her father out of prison for something that he didn't do"

"Hawwy saved baba," she nods seriously "but baba knew bad men and they killed him"

"How are you doing here, honey?" Harry asks, deflecting her comment slightly and distracting her "do you like it?"

"Ajabu zake," she nods again enthusiastically "wake ili kubwa na shiny"

"Hiyo ni mpenzi mkubwa!" Potter replies, bumping their noses together playfully.

"Bora hata kama wewe kwenda kulala kwa wakati," Draco tells her, teasingly reaching out to tickle her ribs, his other arm supporting a sleeping five month old baby girl against his upper torso.

"I didn't know you were actually involved in this project," Potter comments quietly as he brushes past Draco, heading for the large living room, full of children age 3 months, to 17 years old, all gathered around the nannies that are telling a particularly dramatic fairy-tale about an attractive blonde princess and something to do with sleeping and true loves first kiss "or that you spoke Swahili"

"I'm funding it, so I like to keep track of my investments," Draco replies as Potter settles in beside one of the older kids called Steve with a five year old hijabi girl named Bisma sitting in their lap. Potter lets Kamaria curl up against his torso, and looks up at Draco where he's swaying side to side, supporting the baby, humming an old lullaby to her quietly.

"Who's this little princess then?" Potter asks in a low voice. Draco smiles and nuzzles his nose against the baby's cheek, feeling her tiny heartbeat gradually slowing against his collarbones.

"This is Sophia," he says in a slight whisper "she's a doorstep baby. We think her mother was underage"

"Shit," Potter says sadly, and Draco only remembers a moment later that Potter himself will have been a doorstep infant, and an abused and neglected one at that.

"She does okay," Draco smiles, his thumb lightly stroking the back of the baby's delicate head where his hand supports it gently "she gets round the clock care, and I come and stay a couple of times a week to take her off the nanny's hands. She's loved"

"You – you're doing a wonderful thing here, Malfoy," Potter says, clearly choked up. Draco shrugs and keeps his emotions in check by avoiding eye contact.

"Figured I shouldn't let this place go to waste. I'm going to put Sophie to sleep, tell the nanny reading the story that I'll be about twenty minutes. You can tuck Beth in, she's in the third room along the second floor with Alan," Draco points at a young Indian boy avidly listening to the nanny speaking "just make sure she goes down in the next hour, and that you don't let her talk you into giving her orange juice beforehand"

* * *

"I travel intermittently for a few years and you both fall in love with Malfoy?"

"Oh hush your gums, Ronald," Hermione waves him off, rolling her eyes and curling up on the sofa with her glass of wine to the left of Harry, a smile curling her mouth "there was no use in holding a grudge"

Ron frowns and plonks himself down to the right of Harry, throwing his legs over his lap and drinking from his bottle of beer. Harry glares at Ron for jostling his glass of Chardonnay, flicking his own legs up on the coffee table in front of them, turning the TV on.

"Hermione, the guy watched his aunt torture you on his drawing room floor and did nothing about it"

"Yes, thank you, I vividly remember," she says blandly, threading the fingers on her spare hand through Harry's "and I won't forget it any time soon," she shifts her arm and the raised letters on her dark skin become slightly visible beneath her baggy boyfriend jumper "I let him know that he isn't off the hook yet on a regular basis. But if you spent some time with him, you would see how much it fucked him up as well"

"Just because he's got a bunch of issues doesn't justify the horrible shit he did," Ron tells her firmly "just don't be too quick to give him the benefit of the doubt; even without the war, he was still a racist little snake for six years"

"A _gorgeous_ racist little snake," Harry inputted, smirking to himself, knowing full well it would wind Ron up.

"Don't you even think about it mister," Ron narrowed his eyes, prodding him between the pectoral muscles "dangerous ground"

"I'm not stupid, Ron," Harry lets out a breathy laugh "he only apologised to me the other day, we've got a long way to go before I forgive him yet"

"Yes, well," Ron replies "you two are too fuckin good natured. You'd both end up in so much shit if I didn't knock some sense into you on the regular. I worry myself stupid with all this travelling"

"Ron, we're not children," Hermione says, although she smiles at him fondly, her brown eyes glittering with compassion "we can look after ourselves"

"Sure you can," Ron winks at her "me and Harry wouldn't be alive right now if it wasn't for your beautiful brain; but both are you are bloody awful at looking after your hearts as well as your heads. That's what _I'm_ here for"

"Still," Harry says, furrowing his brow and bringing Ron's knuckles up to his mouth, kissing them affectionately "you should be enjoying your little escapades instead of worrying about us all the time"

"Yes," Hermione agrees "and please stop airing your dirty laundry all over foreign soil. The press practically orgasm every time they get a picture of you with your fuck buddy of the week"

"Tell him!" Ron says, pointing at Harry again "he's just as bad"

"The both of you are irresponsible when it comes to your public image," she berates them softly "I'm very proud of the three of us for embracing our sexuality. But it doesn't mean that it isn't harmful for you when you're reckless about your exploits"

"It's not like I purposely sleep with someone to get in The Prophet," Harry pouts as Hermione sips her wine.

"I know, love," she tells him "but you're famous. I know it's not something you asked for, but it's just part and parcel of your past, and I know that it's horrible sometimes, but you can't change it. So I want the two of you to be more careful, alright?"

"I'll be more careful if you're more careful with Malfoy"

* * *

"Thomson, do you have the photos?" Malfoy asks, frowning as he reads through the details of the most recent case he's been assigned to.

"Carrington has them," Thomson says over his shoulder where he and three other aurors are pouring over notes and making angry phone calls to different departments.

"Carrington," Malfoy says loudly, and the file is placed in front of him, but Carrington continues with whoever she's talking to over the floo network "no one told me the vic had bite marks on her thighs. Why isn't this in the post mortem report?"

"The one you're reading was yesterday's. Granger reviewed it last night. We got the new report through this morning," Pilkingtap tells him, handing him the post-mortem with Granger's writing on the front of it. Malfoy blinks and sighs heavily, taking his glasses off for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb and sitting back in his chair.

"Abi," he calls over the talking of fifteen of his colleagues.

"Yeah?" she grins, popping her head around the door.

"Send Granger some expensive chocolate with a snarky thank you note attached, please? And mail a strongly worded memo to forensics alerting Dean Thomas of the incompetency of his employees?"

"Yes, sir," Abi says, an amused expression on her face as she purses her lips and retreats back out of the office.

"So what do the bite marks mean?" Noringsly asks him where he's leant over the desk near Draco, the long length of his body looking painfully fuckable beneath the crumpled, rolled up sleeves of his shirt and the close fit of his trousers. Draco rubs his forehead, forcing himself not to stare, and makes a mental note about needing to get laid at some point.

"It means I need a cigarette," he says "and also that we're dealing with a rapist as well as a murder"

Honestly, he's fucking exhausted. There's something horribly draining about spending the most part of a day reading through inaccurate case files depicting the brutal murder of a woman, who had been found dead and mutilated in a ritualistic spread-eagle pose in the middle of a circle of candles and satanic symbols. He loves his job, but it's the crimes like this that take it out of him. He'd been wrong to assume that the end of the war would mean the end of him being forced to look at disfigured corpses. His therapist is not going to like it when he tells her about how long he's spending on it. But there's no way he's going to let this sick bastard continue running loose in London.

"Fag break," Draco yells, and he watches with a small entertained smirk as there's a mad scramble to the pockets of discarded blazers to reach for baccy tins and cigarette packets "it's like watching a wildlife documentary," Draco remarks, pulling out his own cigs and following the flood of aurors from his office as they head for the main entrance chamber and thus the smoking shelters fifty floors above ground.

* * *

When he walks into Potter's apartment that Saturday, he only just manages to mask his surprise when he finds Luna Lovegood sat at the island in the kitchen. Her hair is as silvery, curly, and hip length as it has always been, and she's wearing what looks like one of Potter's oversized t-shirts, and her lacy white underwear. Her soft, pale legs are crossed beneath her on the stool she's perched on, and she has one finger twirling through a tendril of hair, the other flicking through some sort of magazine. Beside her on the marble counter top is a plate of toast half-eaten, and a black coffee half-drank and still steaming.

"Lovegood," he greets as he approaches, dropping the groceries Potter had shamelessly texted him to pick up on his way over. She looks up, unstartled, and her mauve lips curl into a large, slightly unnerving grin, her pastel blue eyes lighting up with a sparkle that has him speechless for a few seconds.

"Draco," she says "how wonderful to see you. Harry mentioned that you'd be coming over this morning. He's just in the shower washing off last night's fun, drink?"

He purses his lips to repress an amused expression at her bluntness, glad to see that she hasn't changed much.

"That's fine, I'll make it myself," he tells her. As he moves towards the kettle, she catches his wrist and leans up to press a kiss to his cheek, the moment slow and stunning, his body freezing.

"It really is good to see you," she tells him, her grin quieting into an honest smile "you look so healthy"

"Yes, well," he says, clearing his throat slightly "that's what thousands of galleons worth of therapist bills will do for you," he moves away and gets to making his own coffee, flicking the kettle's switch and reaching for the small tub marked 'caffeine' "how are you, Lovegood?" he asks, finding himself genuinely wanting to know.

"Alright I suppose," she says airily, returning to her magazine "the lithium I have to pop four times a day makes me a bit sleepy sometimes, and the diarrhoea was awful until they adjusted my dosage, but now I'm doing better"

He's so familiar with her lack of brain to mouth filter, that he simply makes a face of acknowledgement and nods, pouring the hot water into his coffee and sitting opposite her at the island.

"Snap," he says, taking the packet of pills from the Harrington he'd shrugged off on the back of his stool when he'd come in, and drops them on the surface between them. She takes them in her hand with an interested expression, and reads the labels.

"Ativan," she says "lorazepam. They tried me on these when I was a kid before they knew what was going on up here," she points to her temple "you're not supposed to be drinking on these, mister," she tells him reproachfully, waggling her finger at him sternly "wait, if you're on these, how are you having so much sex like it says in the papers?"

"My wizard healer works with my therapist _and_ my muggle gp; they figured out a way to get rid of most of the side effects for me"

"Most of the side effects?" she questions, still reading the back of the packet.

"Still get some dizziness and the occasional slurred speech spells," he shrugs, swigging at his coffee and stealing some of the toast from her plate "when I first started taking them I had a couple of bad bouts of depression, but they don't really happen much anymore"

"Snap," she grins again "isn't medication awesome?"

"Sure," he says awkwardly, looking up as Potter comes into the room dressed in one of those old blue t-shirts that he somehow still fits into, and a pair of jeans.

"Morning, jackass," Potter remarks when he sees him, moving to Luna's side and kissing her forehead when she wraps an arm around his waist.

"Dick," Draco retorts "money for the groceries," he demands, and Potter rolls his eyes and chucks a ten pound note at him. Draco smiles sweetly and slides it in the back pocket of his own jeans.

"I'll get dressed and get going," Luna says, kissing Potter on the lips and leaving the room.

"That's new," Draco says with a smirk as he drinks some more of his coffee.

"It's just a friends with benefits situation," Potter says, rolling his eyes again and dropping into Luna's seat, taking up her unfinished coffee and wrapping his fingers around it to warm them, supporting his elbows on the countertop.

"Hey, I've lost count of the amount of times I've been balls deep in Blaise's ass; I can't knock it. Besides, Lovegood's okay company," he replies "also she's fuckin beautiful"

"Damn right," Potter agrees, smiling into his drink "so c'mon then, what are we doing today for our only slightly awkward bonding session?"

"It's going to sound a bit strange," Draco begins, suddenly resisting the urge to start shifting, anxiety panging in his stomach.

"Draco," Potter says "we're young adult war veterans with magical powers. It's probably not that strange"

"I thought we could go to bodmin jail," he speaks, trying his hardest not to sound awkward or nervous "walk through princetown. Make a day of it?"

"That's not weird," Potter tuts at him "bodmin jail, that's the museum with all the spiral stair cases and derelict cell blocks, right?"

"Yeah," Draco nods, drinking some more "but if there was somewhere else you wanted to go-"

"Don't be silly," he interrupts him "bodmin jail sounds great. I can take pictures for Hermione; she loves morbid old shit"

"I'll have to take her there for her birthday or something," Draco comments "she might like it enough to stop bugging me about a present"

"I still find it so strange," Potter says with a mildly bewildered expression "that you get this weird fond look on your face when you mention her"

Draco tries not to blush and, makes the most distasteful expression he can.

"Yeah, well, it's Granger. She's so fucking persistent that she gets under everyone's skin"

"Can't disagree with you on that one, my friend," he says "how are we getting out there? It's like four hours away in the car"

"Thought we could apparate to bodmin and walk over to the jail. It's pretty decent weather today"

"Yeah, no problem," Potter says, downing the rest of Luna's coffee. She walks back into the room, now dressed in a slightly quirky waist high, knee length accordion skirt and tie front crop top combination with dolly shoes and a multi-coloured boho bag, her hair loosely bound in a fishtail plat and pulled over to the left of her neck, falling near her bottom ribs.

"Did you take your medication this morning?" Potter asks in a soft voice when she wraps an arm around his shoulders and sits on his knee again, resting her head on his shoulder.

"Yes," she says, smiling "and I'll take another one in a couple of hours with a banana and pb sandwich, okay?" she tells him assuredly "don't worry about me"

"Telling me not to worry is not going to make me worry any less," Potter points out, and she grins again, pressing a kiss to his cheek and hugging him tightly before standing up again. She briefly cups the side of Draco's face with her hand, kissing his cheekbone as well.

"Have fun, you two," she insists "I'll text you later, okay?" she says to Potter, and then she leaves. The front door shuts a moment later, and Potter gets to work cooking them some proper breakfast with the eggs he'd requested as part of his impromptu shopping list.

* * *

Sighing and dropping onto his back on the grass, Draco squints at Potter where he's sat beside him, legs crossed as he flicks through the images on his phone. Draco lights up a cigarette and closes his eyes properly, feeling the sun warming his skin and trying to deny the fact that he's had one of his best days in over two years, and how much of that he owes to Potter.

"Okay, you've got questions," Potter says eventually, raising his eyebrows and smiling when Draco frowns and drops his head sideways, opening one eye.

"What makes you think that?"

"You've been awkward and tense for the last twenty minutes, and I want to know why you're crashing"

"Awfully assumptive of you, Potter," Draco drawls "seeing as you barely know me"

"You wound me," Potter says dramatically, clutching his t-shirt over where his heart should be "don't be a prick. C'mon"

Draco huffs and shifts frustratedly, rolling onto his side facing Potter and propping his head up with his hand, elbow supporting the weight.

"It's – I'm just having a bit of trouble getting used to this," he says, struggling.

"That's a given," Potter says, putting his phone in his pocket and moving so that he's laid on his side facing him, arms curled under his neck so he doesn't get a crick or pull a muscle "I know there's a lot of history here, and I'm not talking about the haunted prison we just spent three hours walking through-"

"I knew it was weird-" Draco starts accusingly but Potter laughs, shaking his head and reaching out to touch his arm, stopping him.

"I'm teasing you, the prison was interesting and fun, and Hermione is going to be nice to me for the next week at the least for taking those photos. I mean the history between me and you. It's not going to be an overnight thing, and we'll need more than a trip to a museum and some Devonshire coffee to work through it"

"I know that, Potter," he snaps, looking down and picking at the grass with his other hand.

"We'll be fine. We're doing okay. Today was good, right?"

"It was okay," Draco shrugs, feigning nonchalance.

Potter rolls his eyes at him and takes the cigarette from between his fingers. Draco rolls onto his back once more, and resumes sunbathing. Potter doesn't make him talk for the following hour and a half, presumably catching onto the fact that he needs to shut down for a while. He stays laid on the grass next to him though, and Draco tries even harder to pretend that having Potter so near and available isn't incredibly comforting, and that it doesn't make him feel safe. Instead they smoke a few more cigarettes, and apparate back to London.

Potter somehow manages to convince him to return to his apartment, where Granger is already laid out on the sofa with a half-empty bottle of wine, relaxing after the volunteer work she does all day at a homeless shelter.

He regrets it immediately when she swindles him into sitting near her feet and rubbing them, whilst Potter orders Chinese and changes into a cotton pullover and some pyjama bottoms that hang loose on his hips, stealing the rest of Granger's wine. She flicks through the photos on Potter's phone and makes little sounds of appreciation and excitement when she gets to a new section of the museum. He rolls his eyes and half-pays attention to the American sitcom that's playing on the television.

"I can't believe you went on a bro-date to a prison museum," she says, chuckling to herself and shaking her head when she finds a selfie Potter had tried to take of them, in which Draco had sat stone faced and stared in the opposite direction, much to Potter's amusement as he had taken the photo anyway.

"You're just jealous of our epic bromance," Potter retorts, and Draco creases his face in distaste, flicking the base of Granger's foot in retaliation "that selfie got me a bunch of new followers in Instagram too"

"Stop talking right now," he says "we do not have a bromance"

"We won't if you keep being mean to me, Malfoy," Potter pouts petulantly, narrowing his eyes playfully. Draco flips him the bird, and Granger only seems to become even more delighted with their exchange.

"I want to be taken on a bro-date," Granger tells him "why do you never take me on bro-dates?"

"Stop using the word bro-date"

"Draco," she demands, digging the heel of her foot into his thigh "why do you never take me out?"

"You're always bloody working!" he insists, rubbing his thigh and looking offended "when am I supposed to take you out if you're always too busy fighting for the good of humanity?"

"I'm free on Sundays," she tells him, crossing her arms over her chest "we can go to the theatre next weekend"

"I don't know whether to be flattered or offended by my sudden and unnerving popularity," he remarks, a silent acceptance of her demand. He's been meaning to go and see phantom a final time before Lisa Ann Wood would no longer be performing as his favourite Christine, and Granger – alright, so she isn't bad company, and they've been working in the same department since a year after the war. She's been one of his closest colleagues for over four years now, and he begrudgingly admits to himself that he really rather loves her.

"Both," Potter says "always be both"

The doorbell rings and Potter jumps out of the armchair like a hyperactive five year old, darting into the hallway and heading for the front door. When he comes back, his arms are practically full off food, and Draco refuses to be ashamed of how quickly he pushes away Granger's feet for the spring rolls and pork balls. He remembers, however, that he's been touching toes for the past two hours, and abruptly goes to wash them in the kitchen sink.

They eat the food, fight over portion sizes, and end up having a mini food throwing war in which Granger ends up taking them both by the ears because a prawn cracker lands in her wine glass, rendering it undrinkable. When they've both apologised, she lets them up and they eat the rest of the meal in relative quiet, occasionally snorting out laughs at Matthew Perry being awkward on the television.

As he chews some stir fry, Draco has to remind himself that this is actually his life now. He is genuinely sat in Potter's front room with him and Granger eating takeaway and watching muggle TV, and, merlin forbid, he's enjoying himself. He's relaxed, and slightly light headed from the cans of lager he's been gradually drinking, and tired from the day's activities. But all in all, he's… fuck, he's actually happy? Holy shit. Granger looks at him weirdly when he pauses with a pork ball in his hand at the realisation, but he discreetly clears his throat and winks at her, assuring her that he's okay. Well, as okay as he can be when he's just concluded that the people he has considered enemies for the majority of his life, are now two of his best friends.

Granger goes to bed when they've finished, kissing them both on the cheek before retiring down the hall to where Draco assumes she and Potter's bedrooms are. He decides that he also wants to get the fuck out of dodge so he can go home and have an existential crisis in peace, away from the two Gryffindors that he's supposed to hate with a passion.

Potter sees him out, leaning against the frame of his front door as Draco turns at the top of the doorsteps about ten centimetres away from him, hands in his pockets, drained and elated and actually, although he knows he's craving some isolation, he gets even more freaked out at the sensation of not wanting to leave.

Potter smiles softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners, the green pupils lit up with happy exhaustion – if that's even a thing – hair messy, glasses slipping down his nose again. Draco resists the urge to take the frames gently either side and slide them back up.

"You going to apparate home?" Potter asks, his head resting near the door hinges.

"No," Draco replies "reckon I'll walk, clear my head," there's no point in lying, he's been slightly off all afternoon, and both Potter and Granger are observant bastards when they want to be.

"You sure you're going to be okay? You can stay if you want, sleep on the sofa"

"I'm fine, Potter," he sighs heavily "stop fussing"

"I can't help it," Potter says in a slightly whiny voice "you're my friend now, you know what I'm like when my friends are upset"

He hates that yes, he does know what Potter is like. If there's something to worry about, there's a guarantee that Potter is worrying about it, and has already thought up a thousand different solutions as to make the thing okay again.

"I'm – fuck, I'm not upset, Potter, okay?" he says, instinctively stepping closer "I'm just tired. And freaked out. And trying to adjust. But I'm alright"

"I want to ask you to text me or call me tomorrow morning, but I feel like that would be way too needy and invasive," he says "and we're… we're not there yet, right?"

"If it will make you feel better, I'll text you tomorrow morning," Draco tells him, indirectly answering his question "get some sleep"

Draco's voice is tired and croaky, but there's a softness to it that he hadn't meant to be there, an all too revealing fondness that accidentally slips out and makes him feel slightly exposed and frightened of his own emotions.

"You too," Potter says in an equally intimate tone, and Draco swallows heavily and forces himself to _not fucking go there_ because he knows this feeling, and he knows where it leads to, and it would ruin everything. So he purses his lips and takes a second to let the moment pass, the one he knows Potter is also aware of. And he forces a smile, stepping back again despite every bone in his body wanting desperately in a second of weakness, to step forward.

"Good night, Potter," he says as he steps backward down the steps, his body refusing to turn around the other way until it absolutely has to.

"Good night, Draco," Potter replies, and there's a knowing tilt to his smile, a cognizant hint of promise and smug perception to his voice that says ' _I know_. I see _right through you_ , and _I know_ this isn't just what we thought it was going to be'. Potter crosses his arms over his chest and Draco can feel him watching him walk all the way down the street. When he turns the corner and heads toward the Thames and thus his apartment, Draco curses under his breath, delves his hands further into his pockets against the chill in the summer evening London air, and fails to stifle a smile.

* * *

"Alright," Blaise says the following week, shoving his elbow into Draco's ribs "what is making you so unbearably broody?"

"What the fuck?" Draco insists, outraged and curling in on himself on the mattress, hugging his bare torso "I just gave you a fucking A class blow job, why are you beating me up?"

"Don't be dramatic, and don't flatter yourself. Now come on, what, or whom is denting that annoyingly perfect brow of yours?"

Draco huffs and curls in further. Blaise rolls his eyes and wriggles underneath Draco's arms, bringing their bodies together, interlocking their ankles, and pressing their foreheads together.

"Who do I have to brutally murder?"

"No one," Draco grumbles "no more murders. I'm rushed off my feet at work as it is"

" _Draco_ ," Blaise whines loudly, nipping at the tip of his nose "who?"

"What would you say if I fucked everything up again?" he asks.

"I would say is it worth it?" he replies softly "why, who have you fallen for this time?"

"No one," he insists unconvincingly "not yet, anyways"

"But… you think you might have the potential to fall for someone?" he guesses "is this someone beautiful?"

Draco knows that Blaise doesn't mean beautiful simply in the aesthetic sense, and it hurts his head trying to think about it and come up with a proper answer.

"Listen," Blaise continues when Draco doesn't reply "you freak yourself out way too much with this kind of thing. Being with someone isn't the be all and end all. I know you're ridiculously overprotective of your heart because you're a stone cold Slytherin and you think you should be ruled by your head and loving people hasn't ever really gone well for you-"

"You're not helping, Blaise," Draco drawls, and Blaise smirks, rolling his eyes and pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

"I'm trying to say, that you're wrong. Yes, being with someone is scary because it makes you vulnerable. But it's also pretty great. You get exclusive sex on the regular, you get that swelling, tight feeling in your chest and you're always excited and it makes you grin all the time like you've got a coat hanger stuck in your mouth. You get someone who tolerates your shitty jokes and reserves you a special smile, and thinks you're a dork but wants to know you anyway. Come on, what's this person like?"

"He's a reckless, matyrical, hyperactive, damaged, immature little shit"

"You're pining for a Gryffindor?" Blaise says suddenly, pulling back, eyebrows shooting up "you fucking idiot," he snaps, only half-serious, smacking him up the back of the head "why did you think that would be a smart idea?"

"I'm not pining for anyone, dammit!" Draco says, cursing and rubbing his scalp "it's just a… a fleeting musing"

"You're confused," Blaise huffs, propping himself up against the headboard.

"I don't know if I can trust him," he speaks blandly, mirroring Blaise's position beside him, tugging the thin sheet up around his waist and flicking his wrist, opening the double windows on the far side of the room, lighting a cigarette, Blaise rolling himself one of his own.

"How much of your misfortune has come from you not trusting the right people?" Blaise asks "we all could have gone to The Order, but we were little shits and we let our misplaced trust get in the way, and we took the mark. Potter is one of the few people in over four years to offer a strong support system. Of course, you'd be a fucking idiot to fall for him," Blaise tells him "but you'd be a fool to continue trying not to trust him. Plus," he grins, reaching over with his free hand and lacing their fingers together, squeezing gently "imagine all the money you'd make out of the press"

* * *

"So uh… I've been meaning to ask-"

"Which means there's a reason you haven't," Draco sighs, swallowing and papering the rim of his bottom lip with the tip his tongue, putting his hand in the pocket of his trousers and loosening his bowtie with the other, a cigarette between two fingers "so tell me why you've been skirting around it first"

"I wanted to ask you that first night we started talking," Potter speaks with a shaky edge to his voice, clearly nervous, and Draco shifts on his feet, tensing and untensing his jaw before he forces his body to appear relaxed, thus hoping to encourage Potter relax as well. He leans against the stone balcony and sucks on his cigarette "but things went differently and I didn't want to take advantage of how drunk you were. Figured it would be more honourable if you were sober"

Draco snorts, amused and flicks his eyebrows, letting out a deep breath.

"All about the honour, aren't you, Potter?"

"There's a section in your psych files that's missing," he blurts, and Draco ducks his head, swallowing again, waiting for the inevitable feel of his world crumbling slightly "before we were friends I had no trouble just going straight in there and poking my nose in. I didn't count it as a big violation of your privacy because I didn't give a shit about you. Now I – now things are different"

Draco puts out the cigarette and takes the packet of pills from the pocket of his blazer, popping two of them with the gin and tonic resting on the pillar, trying to push back the beginnings of an anxiety attack, pricks in his intuition telling him that Potter is moving dangerously close to that thing between them again; the resonating pull that terrifies him so deeply.

"Right," Draco says, a cold edge to his tone, resisting the urge to slam his walls back up, trying to remind himself that Potter is his friend, that he can trust him "so get on with it then"

"What did you have erased from your files, Draco?" he asks, stepping closer "what is it that you haven't told me?"

"Ever think that maybe I haven't told you for a reason?" Draco says, lighting up again and pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb.

"That had crossed my mind, yes," Potter replies "and I've waited. I know you're still adapting to this… this thing, whatever it is," he says, gesturing briefly between them "I am trying not to push you. But I know there's something big, and I don't want to freak you out and I don't want to lose you, but I don't want something to happen to you and-"

"And what?" Draco cuts across him, finally making eye contact, trying to keep his voice from elevating, due to the mansion full of people behind them "and realise that this was all one big fucking mistake?"

" _No_!" Potter insists, stepping forward again "no. I – I just don't want something bad to happen and me not be equipped to help you in the best way I can"

"I've got it under control," Draco tells him, closing his eyes against the spring evening breeze and practicing the breathing techniques he's been taught to use when he feels himself panicking "I've had it under control for years now, Potter. Stop fucking worrying about me"

"But I do," Potter sighs, moving to stand next to him, resting against the balcony and watching two drunk aristocrats making out near the fountains about twenty feet away "I do worry about you"

"You don't need to," Draco tells him in a quieter voice, looking at him again "that part of the file was erased when Kingsley first employed me. I was still in recovery, and I was still really fucking ashamed of it. Now, not so much," he says, shrugging and smoking again "I was addicted to cocaine," he finally says, in as casual a voice as he can manage "after the deatheater trials, I couldn't believe that they didn't send me to Azkaban. I was lost and confused and left to my own devices. That was the only thing that made everything make sense again"

"Fuck," Potter says after a couple of seconds, raising his eyebrows to himself, shaking his head "fuck. I'm sorry"

"Not a big thing anymore," Draco says, and it's only slightly a lie "like I said. It's under control. I've been clean since I got into office"

"That's why you spend so much time working cases"

"I spend so much time working cases because it's my fucking job, you moron," Draco rolls his eyes, tutting, blowing smoke into the air.

"You care about it way more than a lot of the people in our department," Potter tells him "more than I do. Which is saying something"

"I've seen how evil those pricks are," Draco huffs, blinking and feeling relief as the moment passes and his heart beat starts to slow again "lived with them for years. Forgive me if I give a shit about the fact that I can actually punish them for it this time around"

"You could have just told me, you know?" Potter remarks, smiling at him sideways, and Draco knows he's putting on more of a nonchalant front for his sake "it wouldn't have changed anything"

"How the fuck was I supposed to bring that up? 'Hi, I'm a drug addict. Hope you don't mind"

"I don't mind," Potter says "we all have our ways of coping. It would have just made me think you're even braver for kicking the habit"

"You and your damn bravery," Draco scoffs, although he now manages to return the small smirk "you're worse than Granger"

"Wait," Potter frowns, and Draco curses under his breath, biting on his bottom lip, trying to look apologetic "Hermione knew?"

"Yeah," he says awkwardly "she uh… she found me once. I might have OD'd once or twice. She got me to St Mungos on time. No biggie"

"Well now I feel like shit," Potter breathes as he lets it sink in, relaxing again slightly, taking on a bit of a defeated stance "you asked her not to tell me?"

"I didn't even really know you back then, Potter, don't flatter yourself"

"She just agreed to keep quiet? Just like that?"

"Well when I woke up in hospital I think she was a bit too shocked at the state I was in to bother telling anyone. When I discharged myself, she kept the press quiet and all but fucking forced me into rehab"

"Well good," Potter says "you didn't deserve her kindness back then. But good"

"Yeah, thanks, I know that," he says blandly "I knew you two weren't just going to forgive me overnight for no good reason other than the fact that I was a bit fucked in the head"

"Can you… explain more?" he asks, and Draco swallows again, closing his eyes and reaching for that part of him that grounded his mind to his body.

"You might not believe it," he says "but I was quite a happy child. All the photos of me as a baby picture me grinning like a fucking idiot or running around doing something mischievous. I was a musician as well. I started learning when I was six, and by the time I went to Hogwarts I was a concert grade pianist. I was just so sure of my identity; I loved laughing and making music and being popular. Of course, one of the draw backs of getting older when you're born into money is that you realise how fake it all is. It was a big reality check for me, when I realised I'd have to take the mark at some point. I think I was fourteen when it first occurred to me that I'd already had my future planned out for me, that I had no say in it, and that I had no way of telling anyone that it might not really be what I wanted. After the war, I figured out that I'd stopped being me such a long time ago that I couldn't even remember who that was. The drugs were great because they made me disassociate. The only time I felt like myself was when I wasn't. But then Granger got her hands on me," he tells him "and the rest is history"

They go silent for a while after that, and Draco smokes some more, as usual. Potter lights up after about five minutes, and they stay like that, listening to the trickling of the fountains and the light chatter and music behind them. Slowly, Draco feels his world shift, almost unnoticeable, but there all the same. Something is different again. Something has changed, no matter how much Potter tries to insist that it hasn't. After about twenty minutes, Potter wordlessly takes his hand where it rests on the stone, continuing to smoke.

"The year after the war," Potter says throatily, still quiet "I tried to kill myself"

Draco's lips part and his eyes widen, and something in his chest contracts, but he remains in his drained pose, staring out at the grounds that seem to stretch on forever.

"We had just buried Remus. I got through the funeral alright, I was holding Teddy and he had no idea what was going on, he just kept playing with this stupid little wolf plushie. Then when they left the grave for the wake, I stayed behind. I sat there all night but I couldn't think of a fucking thing to say. I just felt so empty. So I took about fifteen of the tylenol I had with me for my ribs that were still healing from the battle, and I fell asleep. Woke up in St Mungos a week later to Molly draped half way over my legs, sleeping. She'd been there the whole time. I remember," Potter says, and he's not crying or shaking and there are no hitches in his breath, but he's still and resigned, and somehow that's even worse "when I looked up, Ron was stood in the doorway with this cup of coffee, just watching me. His eyes were all red and he looked exhausted, but then he smiled at me. He just fucking smiled at me like he hadn't seen me in years. And I realised then, what a stupid, horrible, fucking selfish decision I'd made"

He pauses, sucking on his cigarette and stealing some of the g&t Draco still hasn't drunk, closing his eyes for a second when Draco squeezes his hand, and swallows, turning his head to look at him properly.

"I get it, Draco," Potter says "I know what it's like to feel void and hollow and so fucking spent that you just feel like this burnt out, crippled shell of what you thought you were"

"I'm sorry," Draco says, pursing his lips and shaking his head "I had no idea"

"Neither did I," Potter replies in a light voice, shrugging, tears brimming in his eyes but not falling as he lets go of his hand and turns towards him, throwing his arms up and letting them drop "just – just please don't keep something like that from me again, okay?" he says "I promise, I fucking swear, that no matter how bad it is, I _get_ it. And I care, alright?" he says, poking him weakly in the chest "I fucking care, you idiot"

Draco rolls his eyes and shakes his head again, but he feels loose and tired and he's a little drunk. So he tuts and smiles and pulls Potter in tightly, closing his eyes and trying to ground himself with the warmth and solidness of his frame. Potter laughs slightly against him, wrapping his arms around him, one hand cradling the back of his head. A moment later, he pulls back slightly and holds his face either side, pressing their foreheads together and smiling a little wider.

"And I know, by the way," he says, a smug edge to his voice "I know you care too"

"Fuck you," Draco says, tutting and pressing his fist to Potter's torso, remaining in his space but pulling his face back, feigning offence.

"Yup," Potter grins, nodding to himself "you totally care about me"

* * *

He's woken abruptly to a loud knocking at the front door. He curses and jumps awake, squinting heavily through the darkness, trying to place his surroundings. He hears Potter jerking awake and falling off the sofa in the living room, and that's what wakes him up properly.

"The fuck is calling at this fucking atrocious time in the fucking morning," Draco hisses as he angrily pads through his bedroom door, paying no heed to Potter trying to shake himself awake on the floor near the coffee table. He checks the peep hole first, and immediately softens his half-conscious stance, turning back to Potter for a second "sort it the fuck out," he snaps under his breath "this won't be pretty"

"Wha-"

"Christ, Bradbury," Draco curses as his assistant basically collapses against him, staggering. He's drenched with late summer rain, and Draco shuts the door as best he can whilst keeping his friend upright, struggling to try and get a proper look at his face "fuck," he sighs shakily, seeing the blown pupils and the red rimmed eyelids "alright, trooper, c'mon"

"Who-"

"Potter run ahead and turn the shower on, luke warm. Open the bathroom window," he says urgently, and even though it's an awfully confusing situation, and both of them are still half-asleep, Potter does as he's told as Draco sort of drags Bradbury towards the bathroom.

Draco sits his friend down on the closed toilet seat and kneels in front of him, pulling off his jacket and shirt for him, then his shoes, socks and trousers as Potter rushes around him, both of them still clad only in their boxer briefs, bed hair in all its glory, the light switched on burning their retinas.

"Bradbury, hey!" he says to no avail "Charlie for fuck sake," he snaps, taking his face in his hands, head worryingly slack on his neck "don't fucking fall asleep, okay?" he says "c'mon, get in the shower"

Together, Draco and Potter haul Charlie to his feet and manoeuvre him under the spray of water.

"Potter," he says as he takes Charlie's full weight, wrapping his arms around his middle and letting him lean against him "go and get an empty bucket and a glass of water. Open the balcony doors and air everything out. He's going to panic when he sobers up and he'll need fresh air – fuck, you idiot, stay the fuck awake" he says, slapping Charlie's arm hard, echoing around the room. Potter does as he's told again and Draco closes his eyes tight, swallowing heavily and drawing in three deep, calming breaths. Then he props Charlie against the wall, trying to get some form of eye contact.

"Can you stay like this for a second whilst I wash you?" he asks, and Charlie manages a brief nod, sobbing slightly to himself. Draco grimaces as he takes the shower head and washes the drying chunks of already present vomit out of his hair, desperately ignoring the choking smell of alcohol on his friend's breath.

"Coke?" he asks "or heroin?"

"B-both," he manages "I'm so – fuck I'm so sorry," he slurs, continuing to cry. Draco is thankful for the water dripping down his face from the shower, hiding his own tears of distress, thoroughly awake now, as the memories all too similar come flooding back to him.

"It's okay," he says softly – well, softly by his standards anyway "we'll fix it," he says "it's okay, love," he insists as he runs his hands over the mess, letting it flush down the plug hole near their feet.

"D-didn't know w-where else to go"

"Shh," Draco sighs, pressing a kiss to his forehead "don't try to talk. Come on, you're clean enough now. Potter?" he calls "get a t-shirt and cotton bottoms from my room"

He hears Potter move about, and helps Charlie out of the shower, sitting him back down on the toilet seat and towelling his lethargic body dry. He feels his chest contract when he spots the hickeys on his thighs left there by Draco only last week before Charlie had – _fuck_ , Charlie has relapsed.

When he's satisfied, he ducks under his arm and wraps his own arm around Charlie's waist, helping him back up and into the lounge, past the open kitchen. Potter holds him upright whilst Draco replaces the man's soaked boxers with a clean, dry pair of his own, followed by the cotton pyjama bottoms, and the loose t-shirt. Then they lower him back onto the sofa where Potter had been sleeping just minutes previously, and Draco sits beside him, directing his head forward into the bucket, and guiding Charlie's fingers to the back of the guy's own throat. Draco bows his head and rests it against Charlie's heaving shoulders as he vomits sickeningly, pushing away the dreadful panic building in his chest.

When he's about done, Potter hands a slightly more lucid Charlie a tissue, and he wipes his mouth, dropping leadlike back against the furniture. Draco helps him drink some of the water in small sips, Draco encouraging him to breathe deeply and steadily.

"Shouldn't we take him to-"

"No," Draco says "he's not unconscious and I don't think he's OD'd. It's just a relapse, probably didn't go well with the vodka on his breath. I'll… I'll be up the rest of the night with him now, Potter," he says "you can go home, but you'd have to explain to Granger. Go sleep in my bed, one of us may as well be"

"No," Potter says with solid resignation, and Draco frowns, meeting his eyes "I'm staying. I – no way. I'm not going anywhere"

"Suit yourself," Draco says distractedly "but like I said, it's not pretty"

"I know," he says tiredly, smiling weakly "I didn't sign on for pretty"

* * *

"Granger, are you crying?"

"You're crying too," she tells him, sniffing and wiping her face as they exit the theatre. He furrows his brow at her, blinking the wetness away from his eyes.

"It's phantom, its _designed_ to make you cry," he grumbles, ducking his head. She smiles softly and rolls her eyes, wrapping her arm around his waist and tugging her jacket tighter around her form against the London evening air. He sighs heavily and lifts his arm, resting it loosely around her shoulders. She holds his hand where it dangles over her collar bone and kisses his shoulder over his leather jacket.

"You were right, Lisa is great," she says "I'm sad she's leaving"

"I was hoping she'd get promoted to alternate or principle," he says "unfortunately not"

"I want a drink. Buy me a drink?"

"Where too?" he asks, as they turn the corner.

"Here's fine," she replies as they cross the road "I like prets"

"Just a coffee then?"

"Yeah, I'm tired. I need a theatre come down drink. If we go for wine, I'll want to stay out and I have work tomorrow," there's a falseness to her voice and a lack of eye contact that makes him frown for a moment, before he nods, choosing to let it go. If it's important, she'll tell him when she's ready.

"When do you _not_ have work tomorrow?" he remarks and she rolls her eyes, grinning at him and playfully tapping his abdomen. They enter prets and order two mochas, sitting near the single small toilet, Granger leaning back against the wall as she sits opposite him on the discreet corner table.

"I like working," she frowns "it keeps me busy"

"I know," he tells her "you don't have to justify over-working to me, Granger"

"Yes, I've been meaning to lecture you about that," she says, smirking reproachfully at him and sipping her drink as it cools "I know you're being noble, bringing down wizarding London's serial murderers and all that, but I don't want you to end up relapsing. I heard about Bradbury"

"It wasn't his fault," he says, leaning against his chair and dangling one arm over the back of it "his brother died, he took it hard. The kid just needs some support"

"You're picking him up from the clinic tomorrow, right?" she asks, nibbling on her bottom lip in concentration.

"Yes, why?"

"I'll get the morning off, come with you"

"Granger, please stop worming yourself into my life and taking over. It doesn't help, it's just annoying and invasive"

"I – Draco, I'm not worming my way into your life," she insists gently "I'm your friend. And whilst you're playing sober companion to your fuck buddy, who is looking after you? Making sure _you_ don't want to relapse?"

"Granger," he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb and looking at her straight on "I'm a recovering cocaine addict. I _always_ want to relapse. If I was going to, I would have done it already"

"I know you think you're the master of self-control and all that," she tells him "but how can you be sure? I have faith in you, I swear I do. But that doesn't mean either of us are right. Let me come with you," she says "let me help you"

"I told Potter the other night, you know?" he tells her "he was sleeping on my sofa when Charlie showed up at my front door"

"I know," she says, smiling and tilting her head to the side "he came home the next morning all stressed and confused. He loves you, you know?" she speaks, reaching out and taking his hands over the table. Draco draws in a shaky breath and pushes away that flicker of something in his gut again, forcing himself to shake his head and scoff.

"We're talking about Harry Potter here, Granger," he insists "the self-righteous, matyrical, loud mouthed little shit that's hated me for most of my life"

"Draco," she reprimands him "you're talking about our friend here," she tells him "your friend. And I know you love him too"

"What are you trying to make me say?" he asks, narrowing his eyes at her suspiciously.

"I just mean I love you both very much and that you shouldn't make this whole 'bonding' thing harder on yourself by analysing it or trying to repress it"

"Granger, we went on a fucking day trip to the countryside last month. I told him about me," he said, lowering his voice slightly "I'm not repressing anything. I'm _trying_ ," he tells her "I'm trying really fucking hard"

"But you're not forgiving yourself," she tells him, bringing his knuckles to her lips and kissing them gently, nuzzling her cheek to the back of his hand, holding it with both of her own "we stopped holding a grudge a long time ago. It's just you that's holding back"

"I pay a therapist three hundred galleons a month for this," he sighs "you're my friend, not my psychologist"

"I know," she says, breathing in deeply, and blinking, sitting back slightly, dropping their hands back onto the varnished oak wood, nodding to herself "I know. I'm sorry"

"Yeah," he says, jaw pulsing for a moment before he rolls his eyes again and smirks affectionately, squeezing her hands and winking at her "but to be honest if I asked you to stop worrying about me, I'd be asking you to stop being you"

"And you _love_ me," she grins, dragging her teeth across her bottom lip, her eyes crinkling. He drops his head back and makes a noise of awkwardness, pushing out a double chin. She laughs at him, continuing to grin.

"Stop doing that!" he whines "seriously, Granger, stop"

She simply leans in closer, her brown eyes sparkling where they hit the light.

"Stop what?"

"Making me feel things," he groans, dropping his head to the table as she keeps laughing.

"I love you too," she says "you emotionally repressed loser"

* * *

"Draco," Chrissie chides, crossing one leg over the other and raising an eyebrow at him, tapping her parker pen on her clipboard "you're withholding again"

He inwardly curses how his eyes drag up her rather lovely legs quickly and breathes out slowly. Chrissie is expensive, but he can't have asked for a better therapist, and they've been working together for three years now. She knows his entire medical history and has seen him at his bottom-of-the-gutter worst. He'd tried it on with her when they'd first started sessions, and although it's pretty obvious that she's just as attracted to him, she'd turned him down immediately, ever the professional, and he hasn't pushed her on it since.

He opens his mouth to talk, but the words hesitate on his tongue, and he closes it again, rolling his tongue and shifting in his chair, unwilling and unable to say anything out loud because of how problematic it is. It can't happen anyway, he knows that. He can't fuck everything up again.

"Draco, you know that what you say in this room is virtually non-existent. Once you leave this room afterwards, the words were never said, at least not until you come back the following week. It's between you and me and it doesn't go on record unless you explicitly tell me to put it there"

"I know," he retorts moodily, huffing.

"How about if we go out for a cigarette?" she asks him "will that make you feel more comfortable?"

"No," he says blandly "I'm trying to cut down"

"That's wonderful," she says, her face lighting up "I'm proud of you"

"Because I pay you to be," he snorts.

"Exactly," she smiles "you're paying for it. So get what you paid for"

"I love it when you talk dirty to me," he remarks distastefully, sighing and sitting up straighter, shrugging "I don't know where to start"

"How about your friendship with Harry Potter?" she asks, as ever, that underlying knowing look in her eyes, making him feel as though she can read his mind. Fat chance, of course, he's an incredibly skilled occlumens. But it's unnerving all the same.

"It's going as well as can be expected," he tells her, jaw tight, avoiding eye contact.

"You'll have to be more specific," she says "something is festering inside you regarding Mr Potter, something you haven't spoken to him about, I can tell"

"Are you sure you're not a witch?" he says sarcastically "you're not using legilimency"

"I doubt I'd be able to get into your head even if I were," she says, tilting her head sideways and squinting her eyes, searching his expression for something "come on, love," she says softly "what is it?"

"I've been having… stirrings," he says awkwardly, trying to find a way to explain it without making it real "of the romantic kind," he cringes "and I want them to go away"

"Okay well first off, that's stupid," she says, smirking "you can't make feelings disappear just by wishing them away. We've been through this before. You work yourself up about things that would be so much simpler if you just used your words"

"I've improved," he grumbles defensively "I told Potter about the addiction," he says and her eyes widen.

"You did?" she asks, shocked "you sure you didn't dream it?"

"No, merlin!" he replies irritably "I'm not that emotionally incompetent. I can tell my friends things, you know?"

"So you're acknowledging him as a friend now?"

"Yes," Draco sighs "I don't have a choice in the matter. There's no point in denying it. And you know what Granger and Potter are like, they practically swindle people into falling in love with them"

"You're deflecting again, Draco," she points out "you're shifting the blame. They didn't make you love them. They were just themselves. And you fell in love with them all on your own. I take it you're not having 'romantic stirrings' for Hermione as well?" she asks.

"No," he says truthfully "she's a fucking amazing woman," he says "but thank merlin, no. That would be _really_ shit"

"Only because its ingrained in you that you're not supposed to feel anything but hatred for what you're brain still considers the default enemy," she tells him "you're still working through the conditioning from your childhood. Your mind is conflicting with your heart. Have you tried thinking about it differently?" she suggests "as though Harry Potter is just someone you met on the street and became acquainted with four months ago, rather than someone you've known as the opposition and threat your whole life?"

"No," he frowns "but I don't want to start becoming delusional. We know how susceptible I am when it comes to believing things that aren't true. My father erased a whole section of emotion I felt towards him so that I would follow him blindly and without question for most of my childhood. If I started to think of Potter as someone I met only months ago, I don't want to forget about our past. That's still a big part of who we are and how we are together. It's not ideal, but it's still important"

"Well," she says "at least you're aware of that. But you have to trust yourself. You're stronger now than you've ever been," she reminds him "don't forget about your past with Mr Potter, but try to consider it differently, as though the slate has been wiped clean. If there was no past, and no animosity; would you still be this frightened of falling for him?"

He thinks about it for a moment, craving a cigarette and getting restless, but considering it properly nonetheless.

"Not as frightened," he tells her "but even without all the childhood bullshit, I'm still pretty fucked up when it comes to romantic relationships. You know how guarded I am. I can manage being friends with people, but relationships require intimacy and exposure. The closest I've ever been to that is Blaise, and even that's not the same"

"Hmm," she says, frowning and thinking about it "okay so it's partially the history, and partially your commitment issues. You don't want to be in relationship because there are emotional expectations and standards that you don't feel you can live up to. You don't want to give someone the power to ruin your life because of how badly that damaged you when you were a deatheater," she guesses, intuitive and correct as ever "but we've been working through this Draco. We've talked about how making yourself vulnerable is just a part of living your life naturally. The only reason it went so awfully the first time was because you were in an abusive household and under the thumb of a tyrannical, genocidal, Hitler incarnate. Things are different now. The war is over. Your father is dead. Voldemort is dead. It's safer and healthier for you to love more freely"

"Is it though?" he says "is the war really over? I work on crime scenes every day. People are murdered and violated brutally every week"

"Not in the same way or for the same reasons," she says "stop clinging to your past. You've still got one hand clutching desperately to your classically conditioned conventions. Your default is still to expect the worst from the world. But you can't stop it, Draco. You can't stop injustice and evil any more than you can stop yourself from falling in love. Its fucking terrifying," she says as he becomes more and more panicked, although he knows that every word she's speaking is completely true "yes," she says "but it's something we all go through. It's something that we have to accept. Your job allows you to reduce the probability of bad people doing bad things, and that's wonderful; people are safer on the streets because you work your ass of making it that way for them. But you have to stop seeing a battlefield everywhere. Not everyone is out to hurt you. Some people just want to love you and help you and know you. Some people just want _you_ , the way you are, unapologetically, no deceptions, no double bluffs, no ulterior motives. It's as simple and as complicated as that"

He maintains the eye contact for a few more seconds before he blinks away, sighing heavily and wetting his lips with his tongue.

"Open the windows," she says "all of them. I haven't have a fag all day, and god knows you need one"

He remains quiet and obedient, too tired to argue or put up much of a fuss. He swings her windows open wide, pausing for a moment on the final one, closing his eyes and letting the cool air wash over his heated, pale skin, letting it seep into his blood and slow his heart rate.

"You think the Narcissism is still there," he says, resigned "or that it's resurfacing"

"Draco, your mental illnesses, your addiction; they are difficult. They're painful. But sanity should not be your ultimate goal. For you, that will never be fully unachievable"

"Thank you for installing hope in my heart," he remarks dully "I'm indebted to you"

"You don't pay me to lie to you," she reminds him "you pay me to give you a professional opinion, and to help clear your thoughts when they are jumbled and dark. As I have said," she continues, lighting up, and he mirrors her as he sits back in his chair and frowns at her "complete sanity is not your goal; stability and happiness is. I work with Luna Lovegood three times a week as well," she tells him "you spoke of seeing her recently, where she told you of her schizophrenia. She has been hospitalised for so many different reasons over the past three years, I have lost track of every incident. But the one thing that has always been her biggest strength in recovery, is that she came to terms with her condition a long time ago. She came to terms with it, and she sees it less as an awful, relentless, and unfair fate, and more of a problematic friend that she has to work hard to keep calm now and again. She knows that her disorder doesn't make her monstrous or a failure. She knows that she will never be able to banish it completely, and instead of fighting it, she has resolved to work with it, to be content and moderately happy with her life and who she is"

"You don't think that's what I'm trying to do?" he asks defensively, flicking his cig at the ashtray on the surface beside him.

"I think you are trying with every bone in your body to be a better person, and I am so proud of you for that. But that is an exhausting way to live, Draco," she explains, smiling softly at him, her face momentarily jaded by smoke "and you run the risk of pretending to be someone you are not; you run the risk of convincing yourself that you are neurotypical, that you have everything under control, that you have conquered your demons. That's unhealthy. There's too much pressure on you to be mentally healthy 100% of the time, which is unrealistic and unfair on you, and the most common cause of relapse. In response to your earlier inquiry," she tells him "yes, I believe that your tendency to build up unrealistic standards for yourself are pricked to life by your more dominant childhood narcissistic personality disorder," she says, and his jaw pulses as he swallows.

"But I got over that," he speaks quietly, solemnly "I thought – the war was a huge eye opener," he says "It knocked me down to rock bottom. I thought that mostly got rid of the narcissism"

"Draco," she says, grinning and rolling her eyes at him "you're a Malfoy. You're narcissistic by nature. The reason it's so harmful for you, is that you are simultaneously self-deprecating. You still need to learn that it is alright to need help sometimes," she says "it's okay to not be perfect, to make mistakes, to fall for the wrong people, and to have bad days. It's just a part of being human"

* * *

"Draco?" Harry frowns, confused and half-awake as he opens the door. He's dressed in a t-shirt and cotton pyjama bottoms, jet black hair a complete mess atop his head, glasses skewif on his nose, eyes half-open and squinty. Draco's face is flushed with cold and his breath is visible in the air. The street lamps outside still cast intermittent dark orange lines of light across the street, the blanket of snow still falling steadily from the sky and landing on Draco's black pea coat, blonde hair, and green scarf. Harry blinks a few times, eyes still adjusting, shivering from the chill.

"Sorry," Draco's voice is strained and breathless, and his crystal blue eyes are tired "I – fuck, I didn't know where else to go"

Harry shakes his head and closes the door behind him, stepping out fully onto the top step, hugging his torso with his arms and continuing the attempts to banish the blurriness from his vision, and the overall haziness of being barely alert.

"No, it's okay, it's just… Draco, it's like five in the morning. Have you been up all night?" he asks, and Draco looks awkward, exhausted, and strangely still? He looks as though he's made a decision about something.

"I've been walking around all night," he explains, and their voices are quiet. Partially because there's an echo along the cobbles of the street so they don't want to wake Hermione up, and partially, Harry thinks, because they're both in states of sleepiness.

"What?" Harry asks, leaning against the stone frame of the door arch, regretting going to bed without socks on, his toes quickly loosing feeling on the concrete step "why?"

"To – okay, to begin with, I went out because I was having a really bad night"

"You didn't-"

"No, Potter," Draco sighs, rolling his eyes, his hands in his pockets trying to keep them warm "I didn't relapse," he says, and Harry feels a rush of relief wash over him, creating the momentary illusion of warmth "I wanted to though"

"But you didn't," Harry points out, feeling pride swelling in his chest, smiling and reaching out to place his hand on the side of Draco's neck affectionately for a moment "that speaks volumes"

Draco shifts a little uncomfortably under the touch, and Harry frowns again, taking his hand away and standing up straight again.

"What is it?"

"I walked for fucking hours," Draco begins, shaking his head, his voice wrecked with emotion and fear, but solid all the same "along the Thames, through London, anywhere I could think of. To begin with, I swear, I made my mind up, I was just going to forget about all of this," he says, breath hitching in his throat, heart rate clearly speeding up. Harry draws in a gulp of air and feels the need to look away, knowing already where this is going, and feeling broken by Draco's mention of just dropping everything they've achieved in a year together, as two individuals weighed down previously by so much resentment. He can't tear his eyes away though, taking in every detail of the pale face he's grown so accustomed to; the flawless, almost white skin, the narrow cheekbones, the slim line nose, the pale pink lips and the way they curl into a smirk so easily, and the cold, stunning blue eyes that sparkle with such brilliance, and such haunted reluctance and precise, obsessive self-control.

"I thought that it would be easier to just leave it all behind or cut it off so I don't have to deal with _pining_ like a fucking moron anymore," he says, and Harry swallows, one arm still wrapped around his torso, the other bent at the elbow, his hand hiding his mouth as he struggles not to tear up, because he knows what Draco has been doing, how he's been overthinking everything, analysing, torturing himself trying to pretend that this isn't here, this… something more that resonates between them and pulses in the breaths that mingle in the air. Because Harry feels it just as much, and he's just as terrified, and he doesn't know if he can actually deal with this, particularly seeing as the sky is still pitch black and he's still half-asleep.

"Because I'm _weak_ ," Draco insists stertorously, taking one hand from his pocket "I'm fucking exhausted, Potter," he says "I don't know what the fuck you're doing to me, but it's terrifying. And I wanted it to end," he continues, stuttering slightly, snivelling a little against the cold and the cutting morning winter breeze "I thought I could just come here and tell you that I didn't want to be your friend anymore, that it's too hard to be around you, that there are expectations now; expectations that I'm scared I'll never be able to live up to. I'm a wreck, Potter," he tells him "I'm a twenty five year old, ex-deatheater, drug addict with a plethora of mental illnesses and I'm _still a fucking coward_. Even after all these years, I still can't love something without being petrified of destroying it"

"You're not going to destroy it-"

"Please, just – just let me talk," Draco interrupts, shaking his head, looking distressed "if I don't say this now, then I never will. I'm a coward. Or at least, I have been for most of my life. And I've justified it and excused it by calling it self-preservation or familial loyalty," he says it in a dirty voice, as though he's disgusted by it "but it's really just that I'm afraid," he says "I'm fucking terrified, because… _fuck_ , Merlin, Potter, I don't know if – right, no, I have to say it. I'm terrified, because after the war, I was totally fucking lost. I had no idea who I was, I had no real direction or aspiration. Granger saved my life, but its – it's not the same. She saved my life, but it wasn't enough," Draco struggles desperately, and Harry feels the endeavour in his voice contracting in his own chest, wanting nothing more than to reach out and comfort him, to calm him. But he's been told to shut up, so that's what he does.

"It wasn't enough that I'd survived," he says "because that's all I was doing. I was just surviving, going about things monotonously, doing the shit that I thought was making me a better person, serving redemption, making up for all the pain that I caused. Granger helped me survive," he speaks, poking Harry in the chest as though the words are physically paining him "but you taught me how to _live_ "

"Draco-"

" _You_ ," Draco says, exasperated, shivering against the cold "it's always been you. Causing trouble for me, making things complicated. It's ridiculous that I didn't see this coming, because all those years, it was _always you_. You and your righteous, noble, idiotic Gryffindor compassion and loyalty and incapability of leaving things alone. How the fuck could I not fall ass over tit in love with you?"

" _Jesus, fuck, Draco_ ," Harry retorts, becoming frustrated, despite the elation throbbing with the adrenaline through his veins "get over yourself," he says, and Draco's brow furrows, doing a double take "you think this is unrequited? You were in my life since I was eleven years old, and I wanted to strangle the fucking life from you for the way you talked to me and my friends. I wasn't even as obsessed with Voldemort as I was with you. I spent the majority of sixth year following you around trying to figure out what you were up too, I pretty much stalked you. And when you got the mark, it was – it was like this punch to the gut. It somehow hurt more than any of the other bullshit betrayals. I couldn't figure out why it stung so much because you had always been just the enemy to me, it was something I had anticipated since I told everyone that Tom Riddle was still alive. But it did hurt. It really fucking pissed me off. And even when I didn't see you for a whole year, when I was hiding, eating raw fish, drinking awful tea, sleeping on moth-eaten mattresses and wiping my ass with leaves; seeing you again at the manor was just like… like gravity," Harry snaps back, poking Draco's chest in return.

"And I expected you to give us up on the spot. I was knocked so out of whack when you didn't. And I saw it in your eyes as well. I saw it. You weren't the abuser," Harry says "you were the victim. And I still hated you," he tells him "I hated you so fucking much. Because I wanted you to be good," he's tearing up now, his anger, as always, having a one way link to his tear ducts "I knew," he chokes "I knew you were good somewhere in there," he says, shaking his head "and then I saw you leaving that party and we laid on the grass, and we smoked, and we went on day trips and we talked and ate too much junk food and I learned more about you in the first few months of being your friend than I did in eight years of being your opponent. You fucking idiot," he says "you've always been completely fucking inevitable to me. Of course I fell in love you"

And finally, with a single breath of brokenness, and no resolve left in his bones, he catches Draco's lips with his own, a noise of frustration at the back of his throat, heart stuttering in his chest as he closes his eyes and feels his world fall into place.

* * *

Draco feels his world pull to an abrupt halt, the air leaving his lungs with a pent up breath he didn't know he'd been holding, and he feels himself inwardly cringing at how clichéd it is that his soul recognises this kiss as better than any drug he's ever put in his body, that its intoxicating and quiescent at the same time, slow and hot and fucking narcotic. He forgets that its freezing cold, that its 5 in the morning in the middle of November, that the press could very well be hiding in the bushes across the street taking pictures, that this is everything he's always thought entirely impossible for him to reach for, to experience.

"I'm sorry," he whimpers breathlessly against Potter's lips, desperate and pressed against the door, Potter's fingers curling tightly in the back of his hair "I'm sorry"

"It's okay," Potter breathes, biting down on his bottom lip softly and swallowing heavily, continuing to kiss him intermittently, gasping gently, arms sliding around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer "it's okay"

* * *

He wakes in a bed that isn't his own, to a warm, dark body tangled languidly against him, a messy mass of jet black curls tickling his face, and his phone vibrating enthusiastically on the bedside table next to him. He groans quietly and sighs, rolling over to grab at it blindly. Potter whines petulantly and rolls over to the other side, sticking his face in the pillow and muttering a string of grumpy, sleepy insults at him.

"This had better be fucking important," he growls croakily down the line.

"Draco," Charlie's voice speaks and he frowns, rubbing his face and swallowing the disgusting taste in his mouth.

"Yeah, sorry, love, I'm super fuckin tired right now. What is it? You need help?"

"No, no, it's not me. I'm fine. Its uh… it's your mother. Her house was broken into this morning," he says "she's in hospital being checked over right now, but I thought you should know before the press find out"

"Shit," Draco says sitting upright abruptly, panic shooting through his body, Potter pauses, rolling back over to look up at him, squinting through one eye, observing him "is she alright?"

"She's very shaken up. I'm with her now, she's sleeping; they've got her on an IV of painkillers. She's got a broken ankle, a fractured wrist, and a couple of bruised ribs. Her eye is blacked pretty badly, but she's completely fine otherwise"

"Okay," he says, peeling the sheets from his body, reaching automatically for his jeans where they're strewn haphazardly "alright. Shit," he curses "are forensics over there?" he puts Charlie on loudspeaker so Potter can hear as well, seeing as he'll probably get put on the case later on in the day anyway.

"Yeah, Dean Thomas had his guys there straight after we got on the scene. They've been trying to get a hold of Granger for over an hour now"

Potter gets out of bed immediately and rushes out of the room towards Granger's at the end of the hall, waking her up.

"Potter's gone to get her out of bed now. Details?"

"Your mother put up a fight," he says "she was still in her night gown. She's made a statement," he informs him "apparently she didn't have her wand on her but she got a hold of the muggle gun she keeps-"

"Under the draw in the cocktail cabinet," Draco nods, smirking despite the anxiety rushing through his veins "she get a shot in?"

"She shot the perp in the knee cap," he says "she said he got away, but he was messy, left a shit tonne of blood at the scene. She called it in straight after"

"Report, Bradbury," Granger insists in her authoritive auror voice as she follows Potter back into the room.

"Morning, Ma'am," Charlie greets "Cissa says the attacker was approximately 6ft, Caucasian male, deatheater. She saw the mark when he grabbed her around the neck"

"Prick," Draco snaps, tugging his t-shirt over his head, ignoring Granger's momentary glance and raise of eyebrows, scowling at her as she winks and smirks at Potter, who is also currently changing into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt "alright, Charlie, call Pilkingtap and Carrington, tell them to start drawing up the register, narrowing down our suspect lists. I'll be at St Mungos in about ten minutes so stay where you are," he instructs, shrugging into his pea coat and scarf, picking up his keys and phone, hanging up on his colleague "you two go to my mother's house, work with Dean and Longbottom. Get Patil in if she isn't already there as well, I want a list of everything stolen, and pictures of every inch of that house"

"You're going to be okay at the hospital?" Potter asks as all three of them head for the front door, stepping into their shoes, Granger donning her leather jacket and ugg boots, pulling her mass of dark curls around to one side of her body, wrapping her neck in a blue woollen scarf, fitting her hands with fingerless gloves.

"I'll be fine," he tells him as Granger locks the door behind them and reinforces the wards. Potter nods and presses a quick kiss to his cheek. Granger takes Potter's hand and guides him down the left side of the street in the direction of his mother's house so they can apparate there. Draco walks briskly in the opposite direction, St Mungos being within walking distance, which, he thinks, full of adrenaline, is ideal, seeing how fucking clumsy and prone to minor injury Potter is.

* * *

"Merlin," his mother complains as he hugs her tightly from her hospital bed, cringing at how pale and tired and beaten up she looks, her black eye swollen and alarmingly dark blue against her pale skin "you could have sprayed some deodorant, you smell rather awfully of somebody else's left-over cologne," she says and he glares at her as he pulls away, taking her hand, frowning at her grazed knuckles and thin fingers.

"Mother, you're in hospital, my conquests are hardly relevant right now," he reprimands and she smirks, rolling her eyes as best she can under the circumstances, squeezing his hand gently.

"They will always be relevant as long as they're unhealthy," she replies "although I can just place that scent. Where do I recognise it from?"

"I couldn't say," he tells her "how are you?"

"Draco, you know you should not mix business and pleasure, what have I told you about sleeping with people we know?" she lectures him "it is pointlessly dramatic and senseless. Although – Draco, that is Harry Potter's cologne. Did – oh thank merlin," she grins suddenly, and it looks mildly frightening against her injuries, although kind natured and gleeful nonetheless "you finally got your act together, then"

"Mother, really, please focus on the most pressing issue," he tells her awkwardly and irritably, refusing to blush "who attacked you?"

"I didn't recognise him properly," she says, continuing to smile at him "he wasn't part of the inner circle. I don't think it was deatheater related. More of a personal crime," she explains "he didn't know his way around the house and he wasn't looking for anything specific to misappropriate. He was taken by surprise when I walked in on him, although he seemed to expect that I would be a match for him in combat, he looked rather inconvenienced and annoyed that he would need to fight me"

"It's hardly surprising that he knew you," he sighs "half of the world know our family, if not by name, by appearance and stance. Although if he wasn't looking for you, or anything in particular to steal, I'm confused as to why exactly he was there. I doubt it was a random crime if he bore the mark"

"Draco, I have given my statement," she speaks, looking withered and exhausted "I know that this is your job, dear," she tells him "but I have given my statement, and I would really rather not discuss it much further right now"

"Of course," he nods distractedly "have they healed you?"

"I have been looked after rather wonderfully by the delightful healer Maria Burbank," she smiles again.

"Mother, please remain professional," he scolds her, although he relaxes slightly and curves his mouth at the corner.

"You can hardly talk, darling," she chuckles, shaking her head "and you are too late, I've invited Maria out for dinner next week"

"I honestly don't think there are any straight people left in my life," he remarks, letting go of her hand and pulling a chair up to her bed "where is Bradbury?"

"Oh that boy is lovely," she tells him "he has been wonderful this morning. He's gone to get some coffee. Poor lad was climbing the walls. Keep an eye out for him"

"He's doing well, considering," he says, sitting back against the chair and raising one eyebrow in thought "I'm proud of him"

"And I too," she says "I was going to offer that he stay at the house for a while, if he needs a strong support system"

"The house is riddled with forensics and the auror department right now, Mother," he says "but if you think a nineteen year old heroin addict would want to live with you so that you can fuss over him for a while, then by all means, suggest it to him"

"He trusts us, Draco," she furrows her perfectly shaped brow "one of the few people who do nowadays. I want to know that he is safe and loved"

"Very well," Draco says, considering it further, and deciding that it's actually quite a smart idea "ask him later one when I've gone, I don't want him thinking that I suggested it, his pride will get in the way and he already thinks I've helped him too much"

"Now who does that remind you of?" she grins at him, and he tuts, rolling his eyes.

"I'm making progress," he says "don't be catty, it doesn't suit you"

"I know, I am very happy for you. Now tell me about Potter," she says "and why you look so exhausted and blissed out. Only you could be elatedly happy and incredibly emotionally distressed at the same time"

"There's not a lot to tell," he says, deflating and rubbing the sleep from his eyes "I turned up on his doorstep in the early hours of this morning, confessed my frustratingly inconvenient love for him, and ended up sleeping with him"

"Well done," she smiles widely, taking his hand in her lap once more and bringing his knuckles to her lips "I know that must have taken a lot for you"

"I thought you'd disapprove. It is Harry Potter after all, it's fucking strange"

"It's only strange because you're making it that way," she tells him "you don't need to overcomplicate it. I've known how smitten you are with him for over six-months now. And you know that as long as you are happy, so am I"

"Am I really that obvious?" he asks, offended.

"Not in particular," she replies thoughtfully "but Mothers always know these things. Have you had a proper chance to talk it through with him? Aside from the initial confession of course"

"Not really," he says, shrugging "but I want to catch the bastard that hurt you before I focus properly on anything else"

"Nonsense," she snorts "you have a whole quarter of the auror department working on this. They can do without you at the helm for a little while. Your mental health is more important. You and Potter are two extremely damaged people, if you are going to be together, there have to be boundaries and understandings"

"I'm aware of that," he says "it's very exhausting. Sometimes I wish I could be someone else," he tells her grumpily "it would be nice to have a normal relationship for once"

"And what is it that constitutes as a 'normal relationship'?" she asks, raising her eyebrows at him "Draco, I shouldn't have to tell you this, seeing as you are a grown man and should have the common sense to know this anyway, but there is no such thing as a normal relationship"

"You know what I mean"

"I'm afraid I don't," she says firmly "everyone is unique, and I am rather disgusted with the cliché of that, but it is true. Everyone is unique, therefore no romantic relationship is the same, ergo, there is no such thing as a 'normal relationship'. In my experience," she states "a relationship is simply two people who want to be around each other, be intimate, and make one another happy in all senses of the word. Sometimes, this does not always go to plan, but it is the intent that is important. If you do everything you can to make the person that you have feelings for, happy and content as often as is possible for two people as mentally ill as you and Potter, then you have what you so ignorantly coined 'a normal relationship'. That is as close as a person can get to it. Don't be so hard on yourself, you are doing well"

"I bloody well hope so," he sighs "you pretty much just said everything my therapist told me last month"

"I told you," she smirks again "Mothers know these things"

* * *

"Mr Malfoy," Ellie greets him as he lets himself into the manor and shrugs his coat off, hanging it up and grinning at her, pressing a kiss to her cheek "thank Merlin you're here, we were just about to call you in; we're run off our feet"

"Why?" he frowns, distractedly catching the triplets; Will, Beth, and Anna as they run at him. He gathers their three year old bodies up in his arms, squirming slightly as Anna crawls up around his neck and settles her small, chubby legs either side of his head.

"Jason, Carrie, Stiles, Ula, and Isaac's foster parents brought them all back," she informs him quietly, standing closer and looking sad and stressed "various reasons," she says "Arya is sorting out the files now. Alicia is making up their beds, but the children are very upset and Sophia is full of cold again-"

"Hey," he says softly, catching her arm, pulling her forehead to his lips and cupping the side of her face with his hand "it's okay, c'mon," he says, leading her back into the living room, and leaning forwards so that the triplets can clamber off of his body onto the sofas

"Hey guys!" he says loudly, smirking affectionately at the wild collection of orphans, juvenile delinquents, and care kids screaming at each other. The ruckus continues, but the main members of staff flock towards him "okay, Ellie, put Jason and Stiles in the bath. Carrie and Ula and the triplets can use the shower cubicles, Lexi and Abimbola you go with them, make sure they're alright. Get three of the older children to put Bisma, Tom, Calium, Shaniqua, Mark, Stefan, Kami and Jessica to bed, put the tv on or something, let them sleep in whatever arrangement they want; they've had a bit of a mix around today, they're going to be unsettled if you don't. I'll see to Sophie, I have medical training"

Immediately, everyone moves into business, rushing about, reasoning with the children, edging them into their designated task forces. Draco heads for the second floor bedroom where Sophia sleeps.

"Draco," Amanita gasps, relieved where she stands near Sophia's cot, holding the crying baby to her chest gently, supporting. Draco looks sympathetic as he moves forward, kicking off his shoes near the four poster and rolling up his sleeves, moving slowly and quietly, so as not to make Sophia worse. He takes her off of Amanita carefully, grimacing slightly at the wailing sounds right beside his ear.

"I'll check her over," he says "you go and help Alicia with the beds"

She smiles at him, silently thanking him and rushing off.

"Shh," Draco says, rocking the baby back and forth slowly, his warm hand supporting the back of her tiny head "hey," he says as he kneels carefully at the foot of the four poster, laying her on the duvet. He takes her dummy from her cot and her cries quieten slightly as she desperately sucks on the plastic, her big, glassy eyes staring up at him, full of distress. He feels his heart contract painfully and sighs, checking her vitals. Her heart rate is up, her pulse is worryingly elevated, her lungs do not sound healthy in the slightest, and she has an alarming fever.

"Okay, sweetheart," he says, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible, one hand stroking her face, the other pulling his phone from the pocket of his jeans "we're going to get you fixed up in no time – yes, hi, could you page me through to healer Colewell? Tell her it's Draco Malfoy. I have a nine month old baby girl with pneumonia and she needs anti-biotics but I don't want to take her out of the house; thank you"

He puts the phone on loudspeaker beside the baby and checks her over for rashes or signs of meningitis. He goes over her vitals again, frowning when he looks over her hands, her tiny fingers curling around his, and they're shaking slightly.

"Arya?" he calls, knowing she's a few rooms away still doing paperwork. She comes walking swiftly into the room.

"Get me a bowl of luke warm water and a flannel please? Also fill up a milk bottle with cool water"

"Shit, is it really bad? We thought she just had a cold"

"It's nothing to worry about," he lies "she's going to be fine. I just need to get her temperature down and get her re-hydrated"

Arya leaves and he smiles softly at Sophia, who looks clueless and is now whimpering and sobbing intermittently, still sucking hard on her dummy.

"Draco? Reception said you got a baby with pneumonia? Is it Sophia?"

"Yeah," he says "I'm going to break her fever and get her some fluids but I need some anti-biotics and a more professional opinion. Are you free in the next hour?"

"It's not busy in the ER, I'll come over now," she replies "hey, it's okay, try to stay calm. You know this is pretty simple to treat, even in babies"

"Thanks," he says curtly, and hangs up. Arya comes back a few moments later with a small tub of warm water and the milk bottle he'd asked for. He nods at her in gratitude and soaks the flannel, wringing it out and smiling down at Sophia, gently smoothing the material over her skin. Arya sighs shakily and sits beside them on the bed, offering the unknowing baby her finger, which she grabs tightly and continues to stare wide eyed up at Draco. Arya sings to her.

Slowly, Sophia's fever starts to break and she gets sleepy and niggly again. Draco lifts her once more against his shoulder whilst Arya continues to smooth the back of her head with the flannel, wetting the soft blonde hair, causing it to stick to her scalp. Draco swallows tightly and closes his eyes, breathing deeply and trying to ignore the tiny heart thumping rapidly against his collar bone. He moves her so that he's cradling her and smiles down at her once more, pressing a kiss to her forehead and taking the bottle of cool water from Arya, who looks worried and tense, tipping it slightly, and feeling reassured when her small hands even rest against the plastic and she starts drinking.

"Okay," Colewell's voice sounds from behind him and she kneels beside him on the floor, dropping her med kit near Arya's lap, smiling at her and squeezing her knee affectionately "let's see about all this fuss you've been causing, sweetie," she says in a cutesy voice, looking Sophia over in Draco's arms "your uncle Draco has done very well looking after you"

He tenses his jaw for a moment and exchanges an uncertain expression with Arya.

"Alright," she says quietly, as though Sophia will somehow understand her and hear her if she talks louder "we're going to do this nice and easy," she says "I don't want her to choke, so I'm going to give her the needle"

"If you can find a damn vein," Draco snorts in an attempt to lighten the mood "she's a chubby little shit"

"Draco," Arya reprimands, although there's an underlying smile on her lips and Colewell finds a vein quickly. Draco distracts Sophia by pulling faces at her and making her giggle whilst the needle goes in. She gets slightly fussy then, but recovers almost immediately, still too sleepy to be bothered too much.

"Okay, she's looking drowsy but there are no signs of anything else. So I'm going to prescribe her some oral antibiotics and you'll need to keep a close eye on her tonight," she says "if her lungs don't sound any better in a couple of days, bring her in and we'll put her on a drip"

* * *

"Harry," Narcissa grins, greeting him with a kiss to his cheek, holding his face in her hands momentarily as he smiles widely at her and places a bunch of white lilies at her bedside "they're beautiful, thank you"

"Ms Malfoy," he says "how are you feeling?"

"Much better," she replies "although I don't think you should be wearing that colour, dear"

He laughs, shaking his head and drawing up a chair, looking down at the yellow t-shirt he's wearing.

"I don't usually, I've been rushed off my feet trying to catch the prick who attacked you, I dressed in a hurry this morning"

"Oh now," she frowns at him "I've told Draco to stop working so hard on this. Look at me, I'm perfectly okay. I just want to go home, but these money grabbing imbeciles refuse to let me discharge myself until tomorrow"

"Yeah, well, we've finished our forensics job; Draco and Hermione are over at the house now tidying everything up for you"

"How is Miss Granger?" she asks "I've been meaning to arrange a lunch date with her, but she's always so busy"

"Tell me about it," he says, chuckling "she's doing well. Healthier than I've ever seen her actually"

"I clash with her on occasion," Narcissa admits "but I am forever grateful for how much she has done for Draco over the past for years. She is monumental to his recovery"

"Yeah," Harry nods "Draco loves her a lot"

"And now you too, I'm told," she comments, smirking. He rolls his eyes at her and laughs softly.

"Oh no," he says "you'll get nothing out of me. You'll have to ask your son if you want gossip on our relationship status"

"He has sworn you to secrecy then"

"Actually, there's not much point," he says "The Prophet had a camera guy taking pictures of us the other morning when we were kissing on the doorstep, you should see the entrance hall at the ministry, its full of reporters. We made the front page," he says distastefully, although his eyes were lit with a humour and happiness that filled her chest with happiness for her son.

"Well it's hardly a new occurrence," she says, playfully narrowing her eyes at him "even before the both of you got together your romantic conquests were all over the media"

"Not my fault," he points out, smiling "they're bloodthirsty hounds, the lot of them"

* * *

Draco swallows heavily and closes his eyes, feeling his heart pounding heavily and fast in his chest, his gut rolling over, shooting panic pains throughout his body, his head spinning as he tries to remember his name, tries to remember where he is, focus on anything but the crowds of people and the noise of conversation, the smell of the bodies, the laughter and clinking of glasses, the fear alarms wailing in his blood as it runs cold, and yet too hot at the same time. His skin feels dry and salty and confined, his mouth parched, his lungs incapable of their basic function, his hand ridged where it clutches his champagne, his eyes stinging sharply with warm water, his abdomen clenching with the concealed pressure of pathetic, desperate, terrified sobs that he's barely controlling. He feels a warm, brown hand wrap around one of his biceps, and he flinches, nearly dropping his glass, willing himself to just stop. To be better, stronger, to get a hold of this ridiculous disorder that strips him of his primitive social competence.

"Breathe," a soothing, familiar voice says discreetly in his ear, and the edges of his mind recognise the tone, the tight grasp on his arm, the connect in his heart that feels similar to love, and also to standing on the edge of a cliff looking down "you're okay," the voice insists quietly as the sounds of people around him quiet the further away they get "just breathe"

He gasps hopelessly for air. The glass is taken from his hand and placed on a table near the exit of the venue, and cold night air washes over him. He is lead to the nearest wall, where his back drops against it, his arms going out, palms facing out and upward, warning against touch or interaction. He pants hysterically for relief, and when he opens his eyes, his vision is swimming and sticky, his eyelashes batting for clarity, the solid gravel of the wall he's leant against beginning to ground him. He continues hyperventilating slightly as he drops to his buttocks, still against the wall, knees bent up, feet barely supporting their shaky weight, tears rolling down his cheeks, less out of sadness, more like the kind of tears that come from having thrown up. Has he thrown up? He can't smell or feel any vomit, but as his vision returns to semi-normal, there's sick a couple of meters in front of him, and he whines, shaking his head at himself and swallowing the bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

He feels the heat of a body sat beside him, and he shuts his eyes tightly again, turning sideways and curling against it, pressing his face against a neck and inhaling as deeply as he can, feeling warm, safe arms wrapping around him, getting as close as possible to his vice, to one of the only things that feel real to him right now.

"Shhh," Potter's voice says softly "it's okay," he says "just let it pass"

" _Fuck_ ," Draco whimpers, his world slowing and cementing around him, his hands gripping at the lapels of a blazer, throat burning slightly "fuck"

"Don't be stupid," Potter replies gently "it happens to the best of us"

"The – it's the wine," he manages pitifully, letting go of the blazer and allowing his arms to thread around Potter's waist, nuzzling his nose against his collar bone and letting the after effects push through his blood "sometimes – fuck – sometimes it… it reacts with my meds"

"You don't have to explain yourself to me," Potter insists tenderly against his ear, turning his face slightly and pressing a lingering kiss to his temple "just try to calm yourself down, and then we'll go home and sleep"

"You – you'll have to – to tell someone," he says "the press will talk"

"I texted Hermione," he says "she's on her way out and she's going to wait with you whilst I explain to Skeeter that we've had a wonderful time. I'll spout some rubbish about the cause, donate another hundred thousand, and then I'll be back out for you," he tells him, clearly having acted fast and immediately without Draco realising "but just – right now, just try to breathe"

They sit like that for about five minutes, Draco's sobs hitching his breath, causing him to hiccup intermittently, letting Potter's embrace comfort his thudding heart, remembering the breathing exercises Chrissie has taught him.

"Hey," Granger's voice is close when he hears it and he turns his face to squint through one wet, tired eye at her. She's crouched in front of them in her stilettos, stunning red dress slitting along her thigh, revealing toned, soft, dark skin. She smiles at him affectionately "looks like you could use a hug," she says, and Potter manoeuvres carefully out of his grip, Granger slipping into his place immediately. There's a drastic change in sent and feel to the body now holding his, still on the floor, but familiar and assuaging all the same, slender and floral, dark afro curls tickling his face where they cascade to her waist.

"I have Ron working block control," she says "no one is coming out here, no one has even noticed that anything happened," she promises him, her brown, svelte fingers stroking the hair at the back of his head "did you take your meds today?"

"Y-yeah," he chokes slightly "f-fat lot of good they did"

"I've told you not to drink on the Ativan, it doesn't like champagne"

"Well I didn't know that, did I Granger?" he grumbles, sniffing "its fine with vodka and cider"

"Yes, but not champagne," she reiterates "obviously the crowds and flashing lights didn't help," she considers, ducking her chin to kiss his forehead lightly, absently soothing the side of his face with her thumb, his ear pressed against her chest, her steady, healthy heartbeat calming his own.

"Hey there soldier," Blaise grins at him as he too crouches next to them on Granger's other side, winking at him. He leans forward and presses a kiss to his lips, pulling his head up slightly, taking his face in his hands, his body still supported against Granger's. Blaise searches his features softly, checking his vitals, making sure there was nothing else at work "yup," he says "just your basic, petrifying panic attack. Potter's still working the press like a pro. He'll be out soon. I've called you a taxi, don't want either of you apparating and splinching yourselves"

Blaise waits with them, chatting to Granger about something to do with Charelston and taking on some lawyer work on a racial massacre in America next week, keeping one warm hand on his knee the whole time.

When Potter comes back, Blaise and Granger help him to his feet and bid them goodbye. Potter takes a lot of his weight, Draco threading his arms around his waist once more, leaning his head in the crook of his neck and letting his eyes droop half closed. The last thing he sees before he gets in the taxi and lynches Potter's bodily heat, is Blaise leading Granger back indoors by the small of her bare back where her dress falls low around her hips, both of them looking concerned, but ready to run damage control.

* * *

"Honestly, Potter, I'm fine," Draco insists the following morning where he's propped up against the headboard of his kingsize bed, sheet pooling at his bare midriff, smoking with an ashtray on the duvet near his hip, the bedroom balcony windows open, morning sunlight slipping casually into the room. Potter moves naked around the kitchen, making them coffee and wearing a small frown between his brows.

"No, you're not," he replies matter-of-factly "or at least you weren't. We're going to give the charity events a bit of a rest for a while, let the press calm down"

"How am I supposed to get over this thing if I don't put myself in the situations that fuck me up?"

Potter comes back in, handing him his coffee and sitting cross-legged on the bed near his knees, sipping his own drink, cupping the mug to warm his hands. Draco always disassociates for a moment whenever Potter acts this comfortable and casual and normal around him. If someone had told him only a few years ago that Harry Potter would be sat on his bed drinking coffee with his rather magnificent penis on show, he'd have pissed himself laughing. But now it's an everyday occurrence, and whilst its one that Draco enjoys profusely, it sometimes feels like he's experiencing some sort of elaborate hallucination.

"You're also not doing yourself any good by flooding yourself with stress and drinking on your medication"

"Lovegood drinks on her meds all the time"

"Yeah, but not in large quantities, and she listens to her healers when they tell her to stop for a while"

"How is she doing?" Draco frowns, taking a swig of his black coffee and a drag of his cigarette. Potter stretches out over the bed, reaching for his baccy, filters, and rizzlas on the other bedside table, sitting back with his legs crossed and starting to roll, shrugging.

"She's okay, I think," he tells him, running his tongue along the paper and curling it around the tobacco, placing it between his lips and lighting up "she has a super-hot girlfriend now," he smirks to himself "apparently she's very good at oral"

"How is Lovegood surviving without your rather beautiful arse?"

"I have no idea," Potter replies in a tragic voice "it must be so devastating for her. Unfortunately, polyamory is not for me in this case"

"And now your ass is mine," Draco grins.

"None of me is yours, you prick," Potter snorts.

"There's a stunning hickey on your backside that would say differently," he counters, raising his eyebrows, smirking, and continuing to smoke, swigging at his coffee and relaxing slightly.

"You have exclusive access to my behind, okay, you can say that, happy?"

"Very," Draco replies nonchalantly "I'm sorry about last night, I thought I had a better hold on the panic attacks than that"

"I've already told you," Potter says insistently, placing his coffee next to Draco's on the bedside table and flattening himself out on his belly between Draco's legs, his feet dangling off the edge of the mattress at the bottom, pressing an affectionate kiss to his pelvis and looking up at him with those ridiculous green eyes "its okay. It happens to the strongest people"

"Yeah, well, it's not easy believing that, but whatever"

"What about Blaise?" Potter asks, lifting his arm over Draco's knee and flicking ash in the ashtray "how is he doing without your 'stellar blow jobs'?"

"Actually the last thing I heard he was in a poly relationship with Ginny Weasley and McLaggen"

"Oh my god," Potter starts giggling, burying his face in Draco's thigh, shaking his head "Ron is going to be so pissed off. Merlin we're running circles around him"

"It was the McLaggen thing that made me cringe," Draco says, also laughing slightly, absently threading their fingers together and kissing Potter's knuckles "apparently he's matured slightly, but I'm assuming that's code for 'he's an asshole but he's my asshole, and very good in bed'"

"Hmm," Potter says, putting his cigarette out, eyes still shining with mirth as he pulls himself up slightly by the arms and kisses lightly and wetly up Draco's torso "reminds me of someone I know"

* * *

Hermione closes her eyes slightly against the bright light of the warm sun on her skin streaming through the window, sitting back further in her chair and swallowing lightly, nibbling on her bottom lip and frowning.

"Have you told anyone yet?"

Telling them. Telling them seems like one of her only options with each passing day, yet with each passing day it seems less likely that she'll ever utter those words to another living person. She's unsure if she can even say them in her head, let alone out loud. She knows the situation, she acknowledged it and accepted it for what it is months ago. She's not particularly running from it, so much as ignoring it, or pushing it down. Like the clothes at the bottom of an overfilled suitcase, sitting on it, trying to zip it up, but the clothes keep peeking out the sides or spilling out, the zip breaking more and more with each shove, and it's a matter of how long she can keep trying to close the suitcase before she gives up and tumbles to the floor in a pile of discarded material, staring at a broken, useless shell, exasperated, exhausted, and aware that the whole thing could have been avoided if she'd just taken some of the clothes and put them in a different case to share the load.

"No," she says "and I don't know if I can. They'll all be there for me, I know. Its… it would be easier if the situation behind it was different," she says "I'm not afraid about their reaction to the pregnancy, I'm frightened of their reaction to-" she cuts herself off, swallowing tightly and ducking her head for a moment and closing her eyes, willing herself not to panic, for the sake of her swelling stomach.

"To the rape," her therapist says, nodding his head "you have to be able to say it, Hermione," he tells her "it's the only way you'll be able to move on"

"I've been doing so well," she says "none of them think anything is wrong. They just assume that I like to work all the time"

"They most likely suspect that it's a distraction," he says "and they're probably just waiting for you. They assume that you'll tell them when it's the right time. But you're six months in, Hermione," he sighs, smiling sadly at her "you won't be able to hide it for much longer"

"I know," she says irritably "I – I do try. I had Harry sat down and everything the other day. But I couldn't make the words come out"

"Are you drinking less?"

"I've stopped drinking all together now," she says "that will be the thing that clues them in"

"Perhaps now you've had to cut out the alcohol for the baby, you'll stop for the foreseeable future? You know you have a slight problem"

"Yes," she nods stonily in acceptance "I know. But like I said, I've stopped. I went around the house last week and tipped all the wine and vodka down the sinks. Harry hasn't noticed yet but I'm sure he will soon"

"Hermione," he says assertively "you need to be emotionally equipped to deal with birthing and looking after a human being that will be completely dependent upon you for survival for the next five years at the very least. You won't be able to do that if you're repressing your feelings and withholding important information from the people who care about you and want to help you"

"I'll-" she cuts herself off again, drawing in a hitched breath once more and nodding solidly "I'll tell them tomorrow," she resolves "I'll sit Ron, Draco and Harry down at the dinner table and tell them everything"

"How have they not commented on anything yet, anyways?" he asks her more casually "you're six months gone, you have the bump and everything"

"Baggy clothing," she shrugs, her hand softly moving absently over her stomach, fingertips dragging over the black, loose fabric of the maternity blouse, feeling the usual weight on her bladder and that resonating life line thrumming innocently alongside her own, the connect of her magic to another's, barely a person at all yet, but strong and present all the same "I told Harry I had a UTI the other day to explain why I go to the toilet all the time," she snorts, almost amused by how good she's getting at lying through her teeth.

"Have the aurors spoken to you yet?" he asks "any leads?"

"No," she says "it's probably a dead end. I managed to reach for my wand when he pulled out and tried to run away," she says, blinking away the harsh stinging of tears against her eyes, tensing her jaw slightly "I hit him with a pretty awful hex, they followed a heavy trail of blood from the scene. They're assuming he died when he tried to apparate away"

"Is that what you think happened?"

"It's what I want to believe happened," she says "I don't want to think about him or what he did or how much it's fucked me up. I only want to think about my future, and how much I already love this little bastard that gets me up at six every morning to puke, and makes me piss twenty times a day"

"Is that healthy?"

"I think so," she says "I mean, it's kind of unavoidable at night time when I usually end up crying and freaking out," she tells him "but I've had to get that under control as well, I wouldn't survive it if I lost this little one too"

"You would," he says "but you will have hit rock bottom. And that's not going to happen anyway. What is going to happen, is that you're going to get very big, very grumpy, very achy, and very triggered in the next few months," he says, sitting forward and pressing a supportive hand to her knee, smiling at her "and you really need your friends around you to take the weight of your feet"

"I – I promise," she says "write that in my goals section on your clipboard," she insists "I'll tell them tomorrow, properly, with lots of tissues. And… are you sure you can't put me on medication?"

"It's too risky," he says "and I don't want you hooked on them before you're about to give birth. These sessions are doing you some good, considering you came to me six months ago looking like death warmed up covered in bruises and barely able to talk with the pain, you're making excellent progress. You just have to continue that and keep it up"

"Alright," she says "well here goes nothing"

* * *

"Pregnant," Ron says, eyes wide, mouth open, gormless look on his freckled face "you – you're pregnant?"

"Yes, Ron," she says, lifting her giant fall out boy t-shirt to reveal the large bump that was her stomach. His eyes widen further and Harry chokes on the swig of water he'd taken, Draco sighing deeply and dropping his face to his hands, his reaction mildly unreadable "pregnant. Six months, to be exact"

"You're – you're six months pregnant and I didn't notice?" Harry says, looking completely perplexed and nonplussed.

"To be fair," she says, sitting back in her chair and dropping the hem of her shirt "I did do a rather stellar job of lying. And I wear a lot of floaty camisole blouses and long coats"

"The UTI!" Harry gasps, pointing at her midriff "it was the baby!"

"Well done," Draco murmurs from his hands.

"Can you please look at me, Draco," she requests, and he draws in a deep breath, swallowing and lifting his head, dropping his hands to his lap and making eye contact with her. She knows the question is coming, but she shakes her head at him.

"No," she says "it's not yours. We slept together the month beforehand"

" _You slept together_?" Harry says louder than he clearly means to, and Hermione rolls her eyes "do we live in a soap opera?"

"Seven months ago, Draco and I had drunken sex. But don't worry, your boyfriend is not the father of my child," she says "I really rather wish he were to be honest"

"Holy shit," Ron says "it's gotta be bad. Hermione," he says seriously, taking her hand, raising his eyebrows at how much she's shaking, placing the other hand over it and bringing it to his lips softly "who?"

"Six months ago," she says, her voice unstable and terrified, her heart thudding in her chest, sweat breaking out on her forehead as she forces the flashbacks of memory to the back of her mind "I was walking home from work late"

" _Shit_ ," Draco chokes, dropping his head again, fists clenching on his thighs, having taken statements from too many women that begin with this sentence "no fucking way"

"I walked down this alleyway, and I was attacked," she says "I tried to get to my wand but it was knocked out of my hand and I was very tired, I couldn't fight him off"

"Oh my god," Harry says, green eyes filling with tears, breath catching in his throat, shaking his head, jaw tensing "Hermione"

"I was raped"

" _What_?" Ron says, his voice terrifyingly low and crisp, a dark look flitting across his expression.

"I can't – I can't say it again. It took – fuck, so much for me to even say that out loud. But that's what happened – RON!" she screams as he lets go of her hand and moves to march from the room. He stops dead in his tracks, shoulders stiff, fists still furled either side of his body " _don't you dare_ ," she tells him sharply, tears rolling down her cheeks, hot and heavy "don't you dare leave me right now"

"Weasley, sit the fuck down-"

"Shut your fucking mouth, Malfoy"

"Stop," Harry snaps, gesturing sharply for Ron to sit down and shut up "she – fuck, she doesn't need this right now. She just told us-"

"She just told us something awful," Draco interrupted him "that she's been keeping from us for months"

"I – I'm sorry," she says, tearing up again "I wanted to tell you, but it was so hard to even tell myself, and every time it just got harder the longer I waited. But now I'm getting bigger and I only have three months left and I have to tell my parents tomorrow and it's going to leak to the press and I have to sit Molly and Arthur down and speak to Ginny and-"

"Granger," Draco says, stopping her as he moves, crouching in front of her and taking her face in his hands, pushing the hair back from her face, his thumbs wiping the tears from her cheekbones "I don't blame you," he says "there is no situation here where you are the one to blame. Look at me," he tells her, his crystal blue eyes also welling with hot tears, all of them crying now, his pale skin white and paper-like against her own brown skin "you are so much more than what he did to you," he says solidly, pressing a rough kiss to her forehead, Ron sitting back in his chair beside him "you are iron and steel and the earth and the sun," he says firmly "you're a lioness with a lion cub growing inside of you and both of you are _so. much. more_ "

"But-"

"No buts," Harry says, he and Ron taking a hand each "you are wonderful, and you are going to be a fantastic mother, regardless of whoever hurt you or stole something from you that is irreplaceable, and this baby," he says, kissing her knuckles "will be _so_ loved," he insists "and so will you"

"I – Hermione," Ron says in a gravelly, tight voice "you – I'm so fucking sorry that this happened to you," he tells her, shuffling closer in his chair and pulling her against him. Draco sighs and rests his head in her lap, Harry moving to sit on the other side of her, her fingers combing through Draco's hair as she finally loses it, breaking down into uncontrollable sobs.

* * *

"So are you going to explain to me why you didn't at least tell me about all of this?" Draco asks her the following month as they sit down at a booth in Starbucks with their coffee, Hermione grunting and groaning as she struggles to fit with the huge bump sticking out of her abdomen.

"Well," she says, not making eye contact, clearly still having trouble even thinking about it, let alone speaking about it "number one, I was afraid that one of you or all of you would kick off and go on some sort of death rampage," she tells him.

"You're seriously going to sit there and tell me that you didn't already try that the moment that you got yourself seen to and cleaned up at St Mungos?"

"I hit him with a hex the moment he got off of me and tried to apparate away," she says, distractedly stirring her coffee, one hand on her tummy "I went back to the scene the moment I got the chance and they let me consult on the forensics report, but we all concluded that my attacker would have bled out or splinched himself so badly apparating that he wouldn't have survived"

"I don't remember you having a break down," he says "I'm having a hard time placing when it could have happened. You're a good little actress, Granger"

"I – I had a few dark moments," she says "do you remember Harry's birthday party?"

"You freaked out about the cake," he says "I guess I was a little confused as to why you screamed and started crying about a fucking cake. Fuck, Granger," he says, sighing and reaching out, taking the hand from her stomach across the table "you should have just said. I – you got me back on my feet when I lost my shit. I would have been there for you," he insists "you know I'd have listened to what you wanted"

"Can you imagine," she says, finally looking him straight on "if this was yours?"

"Would have been disastrous," he says with a small smirk "especially since I was already falling for Potter when I fucked you"

"I reckon you'd be a good dad," she says.

"Yeah, right," he snorts "until I freak out and relapse"

"Nonsense," she says "there are lots of addicts that have children and look after them just fine. You love Sophia, you do wonderfully with her"

"Three times a week when I feel at my best," he replies, rolling his eyes "this isn't about me, anyway," he waggles his finger at her pointedly "stop being a manipulative bitch and quit distracting me. Do you have a name picked out?" he asks "do you have a cot, do you have milk bottles and blankets and a small bath and dummies and a supply of nappies and baby food? Do you-"

"Yes, alright," she glares at him "I get your point, I'm completely unprepared"

"We need to decorate Grimmauld Place," he says "you and Potter might be okay living in that dusty old death mansion, but the baby won't be"

"You're right," she says thoughtfully "but I don't have the time, I want to work as far into it as possible"

"Granger," Draco grins "why do you think I brought you out? Potter and Weasley are at the ministry in a meeting with Kingsley organising cover for your shifts right now. Ginny and Blaise are going to take up your hours at the homeless shelter and soup kitchens, and all your paperwork is being redirected to my office," he tells her "as of today, you're officially on maternity leave"

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" she hisses at him, narrowing her eyes "that is completely out of order. You cannot all go behind my back and re-arrange my life like that"

"We just did," he says, shrugging and sipping at his coffee, putting some more sugar in "and your healer contacted us after your therapist told her that we know everything now. She says if you work any further into the pregnancy you're at high risk of losing the baby and putting yourself in danger"

"Why wasn't I consulted about this?" she says "it's rude and-"

"And we're trying to make it easier for you, Granger," Draco says in a gentler, more assertive voice, softening his expression and winking at her affectionately "just let us help you"

" _Work_ helps me," she says, although she's visibly relaxing now, pouting "if I'm working, I'm not thinking about things I don't want to think about"

"That's not healthy," he tells her "you taught me that. If you feel yourself freaking out or getting upset, you can just talk to someone who loves you. We're not going anywhere," he says "and we're all ready to make time for you at the drop of a hat. Just accept our hospitality. Remember how pissy and irritated you used to get when I would refuse your help"

"That's – that's different," she says "I… alright," she huffs, crossing her arms and resting them at the top of her stomach "I'm so fed up of looking like I swallowed a planet"

"Nonsense," he grins sarcastically "you look stunning"

"I look like a sweaty, exhausted, pissed off pregnant woman," she says "and I always smell mildly of urine"

"I was trying to be nice," he says, raising one eyebrow in amusement.

"Yes, well," she says distastefully "it doesn't suit you. I prefer it when you tell me I look like a night troll with a beach ball for a stomach"

"But I'd still fuck you," he tells her, smirking "and that's what counts"

"You'd fuck a fly if you thought it could get you off," she rolls her eyes at him, although there's a flush in her cheeks and there's a grateful expression that flits across her features "how is monogamy working out for you anyways?"

"I'm actually enjoying it," he admits "it's nice to be exclusive. I was getting a little tired of fucking different people all the time. Meaningless sex can be really draining"

"And how are you dealing with being in a relationship?"

"I honestly don't know," he huffs, dropping back against the booth and shrugging "it's overwhelming sometimes," he tells her "sometimes I can't believe how much I need him"

"Welcome to meeting the love of your life," she grins, tilting her head to the side slightly "it's more addictive than any drug"

"No one warned me," he grumbles "I had no idea it was going to be this consuming. But I think we're getting there?" he frowns "whatever bullshit we've got, it's worth it anyways"

"If someone had told me all of this was going to happen when we were teenagers," she says, shaking her head "I'd have pissed myself laughing"

"Yeah, well," he says "times change. You fall arse over tit for your enemies, become a drug addict, get pregnant in your mid-twenties, and have several mental breakdowns. All part and parcel of being a war vet"

"Or of being human," she says "speaking of which, how do we make Grimmauld Place inhabitable for the tiny human I have to push out of my vagina in four weeks?"

* * *

"Woah," Potter frowns sitting up from his daydream against the leather interior of the car "why did you pull off the road?"

Draco brings the car to a stop after pulling up on an off-road ditch surrounded by trees. There's already a couple of muggle paramedics there, and a chubby bearded guy that spots them as he runs towards the commotion. Draco jumps straight out of the car and sprints down the dusty bank, pulling off his jacket as he drops to his knees beside the injured party, Potter following close behind him.

"We're losing him," one of them says, pressing wads of cotton to the wound around a large branch that's sticking out of the john doe's body.

"Do something!"

"I can't stop the bleeding!"

"Take out the branch!"

"We can't take out the branch, he'll bleed out"

"No he won't," Draco says, a haunted, urgent expression falling over his blue eyes, immediately assessing the situation.

"Sir, get back and give us some space"

"I'm medically trained," he says "we're going to take the branch out, and do a DPL"

"We don't have enough blood to transfuse"

"Get me a couple of saline packs, couple of tubes, and a scalpel," he tells them, and although they look nonplussed, they do as he says as he slips on two gloves "we're going to go in three," he says, looking the young ethnic medic in the eyes, speaking with an authoritive, reassuring voice "one, two, three"

One paramedic holds the guy's face in place so as not to further worsen any neck or spinal injuries, whilst Draco wraps both of his hands around the branch and slowly, skilfully pulls out the offending object, the injured man grunting and whimpering in pain as they do so. Potter swallows and gets on his knees behind Draco, ready to help if needs be.

Immediately, the wound starts leaking blood and they press more wads of cotton to it, hands fast and slightly shaky.

"He's going to bleed out," the paramedic repeats, and Draco doesn't look up this time, fully focused and concentrated on the job in question.

"No he's not," Draco replies again "his renal artery is cut, I need to clamp it. We're going to use his blood, start a line – go, go, go, go!"

The paramedic pulls the tubes from the kit and hands it to Draco.

"Stay with me, mate," Draco says as he works quickly "keep breathing. Don't fall asleep"

Draco makes a small incision near the man's abdomen and immediately feeds the tube through it, the blood automatically flowing through the tube into the blood bag.

"Alright, when that fills up, we're going to take it off, pump it back into him, we pull up a new bag"

It fills quickly, and Draco detaches it, handing it to the medic, who attaches it to another tube and feeds the blood through a drip to the man's neck.

"Where the hell did you learn that? Afghanistan? Iraq?"

"Something like that," Draco says, flicking his eyebrows up and wetting his lips, checking the man's vitals with a pocket torch from the back of his jeans and taking a pulse "alright, let's move," he says "this won't work for long"

Straight away, the medics pull up a stretcher and Draco helps them move the man onto it, going with them to the back of the ambulance.

"Just keep doing that until you get to the hospital," he says "he'll need the OR straight away. I'm going to give you my number," Draco says directly, taking the blood soaked gloves off and pulling his phone out, giving the medic his digits "when you get news on what happens to him, text me, let me know"

"You're not coming with us?"

"No," he says "I said I was medically trained, I didn't say I was a doctor"

They close the doors and drive off fast, sirens on, pulling back out onto the main road. Draco sighs, turning the gloves inside out and ducking his head, taking the hem of his cotton pull over between his forefinger and thumb, rolling his tongue and cursing at the mess of blood staining it, along with the fabric of his jeans.

"You going to tell me what the fuck that was all about?" Potter asks, confused as he speed walks after Draco who climbs back up the bank towards his Audi R8 "because I have no clue"

"I said I was medically trained," Draco replies, shrugging and opening the driver's side door, sliding in sideways, leaving the door open as he roots through his glove compartment, finding an old sandwich bag and putting the plastic gloves into it, tying it shut.

"Yeah," Potter says, stood to the left of him "how?" he demands.

"Like that knucklehead paramedic said," he tells him "war"

"You learnt that on the frontline?"

"Yes, Potter, does it really surprise you that I was in more than one fight before the battle of Hogwarts? They trained me as a medic when our body counts started getting too high overseas. I had to improvise a lot of the time, and even though Voldemort hated that I had to use muggle medical equipment, it was saving him soldiers, so he overlooked it"

"But blood makes you squeamish?" Potter remarks, frowning, bemused.

"Well I suppose you'd dislike the sight and smell of blood as well if you had to knit your comrades intestines back into their abdomen in the middle of a battlefield," he retorts impatiently, clearly riled up "more than once"

"Fuck," Potter says, raising his eyebrows as he begins to process it "I guess my war experience was pretty sheltered compared to yours, huh?"

"No shit, Sherlock," he says "but it doesn't make what I did anymore ethically correct," he reminds him, still rummaging about as he pulls the Henley over his head and throws it in the back seats, finally finding a clean t-shirt to replace it "I was saving lives, but they were the lives of rapists and murderers"

"You did what you had to do to survive," Potter shrugs as he walks around to the front passenger seat and climbs back into his previous seat "still, that's pretty damn badass. And also really weird. You just pulled up on a side road, saved someone's life, and then watched them drive him off to the nearest hospital like nothing happened"

"You should look into doing that professionally," Potter says as Draco sorts himself out, closes his door, and restarts the engine, pulling back onto the road and speeding towards the resort they're heading too, having been on the way to a much needed break in Minehead when they got sidetracked.

"I did," Draco replies, turning on the radio, swallowing heavily, trying to distract himself and push off an anxiety attack. Field medicine tends to bring back memories he'd really rather forget "after my trial. They said I wasn't mentally well enough for practice. By the time I was in recovery, Kingsley wanted me in the Auror's office, and when someone gets you off a five year stint in Azkaban and they want a favour, you give it to them"

* * *

Hermione draws in a deep breath and closes her eyes, biting down on her bottom lip and ignoring the uncomfortable soreness of the baby sucking enthusiastically on her overworked nipple. She settles back against the sofa and runs the hand that isn't supporting the infant's head, through her mass of dark afro curls, dropping her head back and listening, finally, to the quiet resonating throughout the cluttered rooms of Grimmauld Place.

There's something gratifying, she thinks, about being a muggleborn living in a house with such a dark history of prejudice and racism, and bringing up her beautiful (if whiny and unsettled) newborn bastard child in it, redefining its demeanour, making new memories and adding to the love that had just begun to touch the walls and foundations during its days of being Order headquarters. She smirks to herself as she thinks about what Walburga and Orion would say about it, and even laughs slightly at the thought of how happy Sirius would be if he knew what was going on in his childhood home. She looks down at the baby, so fittingly named Nala, who has batted her eyelids in confusion of her Mother's moment of amusement at seemingly nothing.

"Your uncle Sirius would adore you," she says softly, smiling down at Nala, stroking the tiny afro curls growing on her crown, eyes crinkling at the corners with adoration "he'd teach you how to swear and show you the best places for hide and seek," she sighs, feeling her fragile emotions rising to the surface again as her eyes well up for the tenth time that afternoon "and your uncle James," she grins "he would buy you your first broomstick and chase you around on it with Sirius because okay," she says in a baby voice "he'd want you to play Quidditch but he was also a giant dorky white mom so he would be terrified that you'd fall off"

Nala gurgles slightly in acknowledgement, her tiny brown fingers moving in reaction to the sound of her Mother's voice.

"And your uncle Remus would buy you your first set of quills," she grins, swallowing the lump gathering in her throat "I bet he'd buy you a wonderful set of calligraphy supplies," she breathes "and your auntie Lily would probably end up getting more ink on your faces than on the parchment," she chuckles, pursing her lips together and closing her eyes for a second again, waiting for the sobs to pass "they would have loved you so much sweetie," she says, her voice slightly high pitched and croaky "and I promise Molly and Arthur and Adromeda will tell you all about them"

Nala's big brown eyes start to flutter closed with the comfort of the milk and her Mother's heartbeat against her ear, and Hermione smiles again, letting her little chubby fingers wrap around one of her bigger ones, feeling that choking, wonderful contracting in her chest again, once more unable to comprehend that such a bundle of beauty and brilliance and innocence is the product of such an awful event. Unable to comprehend that she has made such a fantastic human being.

When Nala shuts her eyes properly, Hermione readies herself for the pain of the injuries she'd sustained in childbirth only weeks ago, and shuffles forward, pushing herself up to her feet, pulling her plaid shirt back over her breast, careful not to jolt her daughter in her arms. She moves slowly and carefully to her bedroom and gently lowers Nala into the cot that Draco had built for her out of Ikea furniture (that had been an amusing show of male arrogance and lack of patience). Once she's sure that Nala is sleeping soundly, she moves awkwardly to her bed, trying to avoid pulling at her pelvis too much, and curling up in the bed over the covers, one of Nala's comfort toys still on her pillow from earlier. She closes her red rimmed eyelids and falls to sleep almost instantly, utterly exhausted, emotional, but filled to the very core with a love she had never in her wildest dreams anticipated was even possible, changed forever.

* * *

Potter comes up behind him, wrapping his arms around his middle and tucking his chin over Draco's shoulder as a way of saying good morning, and Draco sighs, closing his eyes and smiling quietly, focusing on the grounding feel of the warm body pressed against his back, sucking on his cigarette and taking a sip from the mug of black coffee in his other hand.

"We've got Nala today," Potter tells him "Hermione's bringing her over in an hour, and Sophia will wake up for her feed in a minute"

"I already gave it to her," Draco says absently, eyes still closed against the caress of the morning sunlight pitching itself onto the balcony, warming his skin "she went straight back under though, I think she's coming down with something again"

"If she gets a cough we'll call Coleman, get her to take a look at her. How are you feeling this morning?"

"Tired," Draco replies, lifting his eyebrows slightly "that baby can be a little shit sometimes"

"You love her like your own," Potter grins against his neck, pressing soft, sleepy kisses along his pulse point.

"Unfortunately," he grumbles, moving his head slightly to give Potter better access, just starting to notice the morning hard on pressed against his ass "hello there"

"Good morning," Potter says, laughter in his voice, hand sneaking beneath the bottom of his t-shirt, drawing patterns around his abdomen "come back to bed"

"You have twenty minutes, Potter," Draco rolls his eyes, flicking his cigarette over the balcony, leaving his coffee on the small table as Potter drags him backward, biting his neck softly now, hand pressed flat against his stomach, pushing their bodies closer together.

"Half an hour," he retorts "no less"

"Bit ambitious, aren't we?"

"I like a challenge"

* * *

Draco resists the urge to make a frustrated noise of protest and bites his tongue, lifting Sophia from her seat on the grass between his legs, and turns her body so that she's facing him. Her hands are covered in jam, as is her face, and she fixes him with a guilty grin that could start wars.

"Wet wipe," he says simply and loudly, and Potter, who is pursing his lips trying not to laugh, passes him a wet wipe. Draco keeps the stony look on his face as he wipes her fingers for her, and all the time, she keeps this ridiculously adorable expression of barely contained giggles on her face.

"Mucky pup," she says when he's done and he raises one eyebrow at her, his face stern and working hard not to appear mildly amused "sorry"

"Sure you are," he replies blandly, rolling his eyes.

"Draco, she's four, she doesn't understand sarcasm"

"Yes I do!" she announces loudly, grinning wider and turning to face Granger, who is sat in their small circle braiding Nala's hair for her. Sophia scrambles over Draco's legs to sit in Potter's lap where he's situated cross-legged beside him "Draco does sarcasism all the time!" she says, and Potter smiles at her as she attempts to use the bigger word "Harry says he's a snarky git"

"Shhh!" Potter says immediately, gasping and pressing his hand to her mouth to get her to stop talking. Draco glares at him "I swear I didn't know she was listening to me when I said that!"

"Harry, she's four, not deaf," Weasley chuckles where he's also sat with his legs crossed, Parvati Patil resting her head in his lap as she reads 'a streetcar named desire' and plays with one of the silk tassels of her patterned hijab "Soph," he says, getting her attention "Harry is absolutely right about Draco"

"Weasley, you shut your whore mouth, so help me-"

"Draco," Granger snaps, warning him to watch his mouth around the children.

"Sorry. Weasley, shut your pie hole and quit trying to turn my daughter against me"

"Doing a slap up job of that yourself, mate," George Weasley chimes in as he arrives at the scene with Angie and Ginny, which of course means that Blaise and McLaggen are in tow. Draco shares a look of distaste with Potter as the new additions to their crowd sit down, but George chucks him a packet of the pink menthols he'd texted him to pick up on his way over, and he smirks at him in return, flipping him the bird.

"Potter, how the hell did you get Draco out in the sun?" Blaise asks, bemused as he sits behind him, getting comfortable and spreading his legs out on the grass either side of Draco's body, wrapping his arms around his middle and tucking his chin over his shoulder.

"Aggressive negotiations," Potter replies with a smile and winks at Blaise in greeting, kissing Ginny's cheek as she moves through their half-assed circle shaped gathering, bending down and lifting Sophia into her arms, making loud sounds of excitement, to which Sophia falls into a fit of giggles and curls into her aunt's neck against the force of Ginny's tickling.

"Awh," Blaise pouts, playfully biting down on Draco's shoulder beside the loose fabric of his tank top "I remember when we used to have our own aggressive negotiations"

"You were so devastated when we had to stop," Draco says tragically, looking amused.

"It was for the greater good," Blaise sighs overdramatically.

"I was doing a public service to McLaggen and firecrotch," he shrugs and McLaggen snorts into the can of fosters he's opening from the cooler they've brought with them "if you love a penis, you have to let it go"

"Draco," Granger warns again, narrowing her eyes at him. Nala thanks her mother as she finishes with her hair, and stumbles over to Draco and Blaise, taking Draco's face in her tiny hands and fixing him with a very serious look.

"You are a grown man, Uncle Draco," she tells him, and Blaise laughs heavily into the curve of his neck, hiding his face from view "act like it"

"Oh my god," Weasley wheezes through his laughter, bowing his head to Patil's and shaking it "she's literally a mini Hermione"

"Where's aunt Cissa?" Sophia frowns, pouting and drawing his attention. Potter adjusts her slightly in his lap and draws her blonde curls up into a ponytail where they've been getting in her face and making her sweat.

"She'll be here soon," Draco tells her, reaching out and attack-snuggling Nala, who lets out a high-pitched scream and laughing musically, crawling up Draco's body and sitting awkwardly on the back of his neck, playing with Blaise's face.

"Granger please control your demon"

"Draco!" Sophia growls, glaring at him "Nala is not a demon. Nala is a princess"

"Granger, please control the fussy three year old farting on the back of my neck?"

Nala giggles loudly again, shaking her head defiantly.

Eventually, she topples off Draco's shoulders and lands in Potter's lap next to her best friend, and they both curl up together against Potter's torso, whispering in hushed voices together, grinning suspiciously and sharing their teddy. Granger simply smiles, amused, and lays back on the grass, pulling her sunglasses over her eyes and resumes sunbathing.

A few minutes later, his mother appears dressed in denim shorts and a white tank top, supplied with bottles of ice cold water, a bottle of chilled wine for Granger, and two ice lollies for Nala and Sophia, who both squeal loudly and run at her, tackling her to the ground and showering her with kisses and hugs. Narcissa laughs as Blaise moves, taking the drinks off of her and putting them on the picnic blanket in the middle of everyone, moving to Ginny and settling himself next to her. He lifts his arm and she smiles absently, ducking her head under it and resting herself against him and his one bent up knee. He presses a kiss to her forehead and she reaches out to take McLaggen's hand where he's laid out on his back in front of them. McLaggen brings her knuckles to his lips and kisses them softly, before resting it over his heart.

Nala and Sophia let Narcissa up, and she sits with them in her lap, telling them the stories of her week, damatising them for their benefit, playing with their hair whilst they listen avidly, sucking on their lollies and exchanging excited glances with each other. Draco looks around as Potter shuffles closer to him, resting his head on his shoulder and pressing a kiss to his temple, one arm threading around his waist, his other hand rubbing his thigh soothingly.

Today is May 2nd. It's ridiculously hot, considering they're not even in June yet, but no one is complaining. They're sat in the wide, populated field where most of the war graves are located, sat in their thousands in their individual circles, chatting, eating, drinking, listening to music and enjoying the sunshine. Kingsley had decreed only months ago that this year there would be a more festival-ish atmosphere to the memorials, and it's caught on wonderfully. There are no big speeches or broken, haunted atmospheres. No one is wearing black suits or crying as such, and they're having fun, working through the heavy blanket of pain and loss by treating it like an occasion of happiness, dealing with sadness by teasing each other, huddling together, small kisses and touches and casual embraces carrying them on through the solemnness catching them between the laughter and conversation, visible in small glances and shuddery sighs.

But it's alright. It's pretty fucking wonderful really. Because honestly, with everything going on in his life; the addiction, the therapy, his job, maintaining a relationship with Potter, adopting Sophia, Granger pushing through her ptsd, Lovegood being hospitalised again, his Mother becoming somewhat of a grandmother. Honestly, it's amazing that he can be so happy and content on such a shitty day, when he's feeling that itch underneath his skin more noticeably, when he gets lightheaded with disbelief that he even deserves all of this.

And he remembers waking up that morning with Potter snoring and drooling into his pillow beside him, and Sophia curled up on his chest having had a nightmare in the early hours, muttering in her sleep and nuzzling further into his body, her tiny arms furling softly around his neck. He remembers feeling more real and himself than he's ever been, which is incredibly important and something he never in a million years thought he'd have. But he does. Potter's warm body his pressed against his, and he can smell his cologne, and he looks over at Sophia playing with her grandmother with that cute little upturned smile she gets when she's wholly engrossed in something. And he does. He does have it. Whatever _it_ is. It's his, and it's by no means flawless, or easy and sometimes it's downright terrifying, but it's the closest he's ever felt to something akin to peace, and knows, as he kisses the top of Potter's head and squeezes his hands where they settle in his, he wouldn't have it any other way.


End file.
